


Red

by kedavranox



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Background Relationships, Beards (Facial Hair), Blow Jobs, Coming Out, Community: hp_crossgenfest, Cross-Generation Relationship, Dirty Talk, Face-Fucking, Frottage, Light Dom/sub, Light breathplay, Love Confessions, M/M, Minor Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Mutual Pining, Nipple Piercings, Nipple Play, Past Blaise Zabini/Ron Weasley, Past Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Pining, Rare Pairings, Recreational Drug Use, Rimming, Rock Star Teddy Lupin, Rock Stars, Romance, Rough Sex, Secret Crush, Sleepy Sex, Slow Burn, Young Love, hung! Ron
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-25
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-06-30 08:04:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15747639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kedavranox/pseuds/kedavranox
Summary: Teddy is a rockstar; Ron is his muse. (Or a love story fueled by drugs, sex & rockn'roll—but mostly plain old awkward and embarrassing young love.)Ron pushes himself firmly into Teddy’s space, presses his mouth against Teddy’s lips and kisses him so soundly, that it’s as if after a lifetime of shallow breaths, he’s finally been allowed to properly inhale.Ron's lips are gentle and soft, and Teddy instantly melts in his arms, relying on Ron to hold him up—tobe therewhen Teddy loses his strength, because he knows he will.All at once, everything comes to life and comes to a close, and a sense of unreality settles in his mind because he can’t quite believe it’s Ron against him. He can't believe it'sRonwho tastes of Firewhisky, and ginger, and mallowsweet and sex and Teddy wants to possess him andbepossessed at the same time..





	1. PART I: Teddy

**Author's Note:**

> This could be considered my personal love letter to Ron Weasley. Thank you for allowing me to indulge myself, and thanks to all my salty friends for helping with this, W for answering a million questions, and Grace for being a kind and patient mod. 
> 
> Content note: This fic is only partially epilogue compliant.  
> Albus, Lily, Rose and Hugo aren't around, but James got a reprieve ;)

**PART I**

**Teddy**

“Is it the last song already?”

 Teddy’s voice booms within the Hydro, and the crowd erupts into a chorus of screams and cheers. A few cries of “ _Never!_ ” and _“We love you Ed!”_ rise above the general protests. He grins, taking the acoustic guitar passed to him by a stage hand and fingering a few chords restlessly as he adjusts the strap.

“It’s been hours! I’m sure you’re just about fed up seeing this awful mug.”

His fans burst into a fresh bout of screaming, and Teddy smiles again. “I’ve never done this next one on tour before, so I’m dead nervous.” He tucks a few loose strands of his hair back into place. “But, it’s one of my favourites. Do you want to hear it?”

The audience cheers once more, rippling and swaying together in that odd way large crowds do, like a mirage just before it vanishes into the horizon. They’re calmer now, having mellowed out from the hyped-up frenzy that existed in his earlier sets, their collective gaze fixed upon him, mesmerised by the sight of _the_ Edward Lycan.

He pushes up the sleeves of his jacket, thankful for the millionth time that Max, his costume designer, had agreed to the simple look to close out the show—black jeans, a threadbare t-shirt, Dragonhide boots and a Burberry jacket. It’s the most comfortable look of his whole tour, one he relishes slipping into, because it grounds him at the end of every long and gruelling performance. It’s a reminder of what it feels like to be in his own skin, and not some strangely popular, handsome bloke named _Edward._

He grabs a stool from stage right and walks it to centre stage, holding his guitar aloft—if only for a few minutes to catch himself.  He’ll never be used to having a group of humans look up at him as if he’s in possession of every answer to every question they’ve asked themselves in the dead of night.

It’s a heady feeling, being the focus of so much energy—so much _want._ His magic tumbles anxiously in his chest, his skin tingles, and his dick is half-hard. It’s a collection of sensations that elevates him into the headspace of someone infinitely powerful, but someone who is still slightly afraid of that power.

It’s the way he imagines his father must have felt as he turned.

Teddy adjusts his mic stand, taking a moment to egg on the crowd further. “Everyone enjoying the show?”

Deafening screams are the only answer he receives as he settles on the stool, shifting his guitar in his lap. He adjusts his earpiece and smiles, listening as his stage manager counts down the last minute till his final set.  It’s the private, secret smile interviewers pester him about any chance they can get, the one that graces his latest album cover, and the one he gets whenever he thinks about the song he’s going to sing.

His fans go wild and he leans forward, gives the girl with the big hair and the Aran jumper in the front row a quick nod and wink. She screams and jumps around, waving her hands, and Teddy leans into the mic and says, “Everyone seems to think this next one’s about a girl.”  

He fingers the haunting opening chords to _‘Red_ ’ and then lets the tune drop, teasing the fans with the now-familiar intro. The uproar is almost deafening and he laughs, letting his fingers seek the jagged hidden initials carved into the curve of his guitar, the ones he put there when he was seventeen and newly lovestruck.

The guitar is his first—a gift from his great grandfather after his first “real” show, when he was  too young and he played on a borrowed guitar in a basement pub, surrounded by witches and wizards who scared the shit out of him, but who all came to clap him on the back and shake his hand when he was done.

Now he has more guitars than he knows what to do with, but he only ever performs “ _Red”_ on this one. It’s the same guitar he played when he put the lyrics together and somehow plucked out a melody that matched the one that existed inside his head.   

The noise dies down, and Teddy pulls himself closer to the microphone stand. Someone from the crowd yells _“Is it?”_ and he laughs.

“No,” he almost murmurs. He fingers the guitar strings with some agitation, though he doesn’t understand why this admission should now make him falter.  His stage manager buzzes in his ear, letting him know the final set clock is running.

“This one is definitely not about a girl.”

 The crowd goes wild, and his heart speeds up almost to an alarming rate as his band starts up behind him. While he’s never denied being queer in any of his interviews, he’s never been so brazen and open about his sexuality before. He takes a deep, slightly unsteady breath and attempts to master his poker face, a feat he never seems to be able to accomplish, at least, not when he’s faced with the very subject of the song he’s about to sing.  

He grins and hooks the heel of his boot on the ring of his stool, glancing back at his bassist and background vocalist, a squib named Varlan who he’s been working with for the past year.

With a quick nod to his band, Teddy begins to sing.

_You back me into a corner with your eyes._  
_Your blue gaze on me._  
_All I see is red._  
_You know I’m helpless when you smile._  
_It’s just what you do._  
_Gone over you._  
_Nothing to be done._  
_Nothing we can do._  
_A heart wrapped in blue._  
_This one’s for you._  
_It’s all for you._  
_All I see is red._

Its softer and rounder than any of his other singles, and he sings most of it in a dangerously husky falsetto, unlike his usual strident, straightforward sound.  The piano accompaniment is so subtle, it weaves seamlessly into the guitar chords he’d written to accompany it.

When _Red_ was first released to the Muggle world, the critics hailed it as the long-awaited and hard-won evidence of Edward Lycan’s vulnerability. He had finally sung a song about heartache.

But anyone who knows him—properly _knows_ the Teddy Lupin who exists behind the persona of Edward Lycan—would only need to hear five seconds of _Red_ to know it’s about Ron Weasley. It’s why he never performs it at wizarding shows, and why he’s never released it to the WWN.

There’s still the slim chance that he could be found out by Muggle-borns who know about CD’s and iTunes and Spotify—who also possess the wherewithal to put Teddy Lupin and Edward Lycan together—but it’s unlikely. He uses his metamorphagus traits on stage more often than not—makes his shoulders slightly broader, his nose and jawline more severe. His hair colour changes as often as his sets—a feat the Muggles put down to hair dye and wigs.

It’s a calculated risk, but he couldn’t avoid writing _Red_ if he tried.

And he _had_ tried for years—tried to put aside everything he had felt for Ron, ever since he understood what those feelings were. But putting Ron Weasley out of his mind was almost as impossible as not being in love with him, a lesson he’d learn long ago.

As he sings, he closes his eyes, falling into the memory of the night he’d first written _‘Red’_ , almost two years ago, when Ron had shown up at one of his shows in Manhattan. Back then, he’d just released his music to the Muggle world, and the response was so overwhelming that Jack, his manager, had to set up a few Wizard-exclusive shows in the US, just so wizards could also see him live, as they begun clamouring to do.

Ron hadn’t written him to say he’d show up to his final gig in a Greenwich Village wizarding pub called _‘Stoked’_ , but there, in the middle of his set, Teddy had looked up to find that all-too-familiar, unrelenting blue gaze burning into him from across the room.

Then, as he was wont to do whenever Ron was around, Teddy froze in the middle of his set.  

To Teddy, it always seemed as though there was never enough time for his heart to grow accustomed to Ron’s presence. As soon as he’d got a hold on his feelings—when he was finally able to exist in a room besides Ron without losing his senses—Ron would leave, only to return months later, and the cycle would begin again.

All in all, Teddy had spent many years of his life trying to become immune to Ron Weasley. A wasted effort, apparently, for as he stood there on the stage in New York, the familiar sensations of becoming red in the face, short of breath, and tight at the groin became a familiar refrain.

When Teddy saw Ron with Blaise Zabini—a man Teddy knew he’d been fucking around with for years—Teddy’s heart plummeted to his shoes. There on the stage, the cold reality that Ron Weasley was not his, and probably would never be, had hit him like a sledgehammer.

After the show, he had fled, not even staying back to sign for fans as he usually would have done. Instead, alone in his flat, he’d made himself irrepressibly drunk in the space of an hour, and then he had written _Red_.

 

Now, as the song ends, and the audience splits the air with screams, he feels naked and exposed. He stands and makes his way downstage, gearing up to end the show. He takes his bows with the band as the crowd begs him not to leave, begs him to give them one final song.

Teddy gives the arena a dazzling smile and blows his fans a kiss.

“Cheers, Glasgow,’ he yells with a final wave. “It’s been magic!”

And then he trots off the stage, leaving them wanting.

In the wings, he is swarmed by his team, helping him out of his jacket, handing him water and a towel, and herding him along the corridor.

He doesn’t linger like he usually does on the trek to his dressing room, doesn’t speak to his stage manager to do a quick review on timing and what went wrong and what went right, doesn't heckle his band mates or tease Varlan about his music-sex-guitar face. He walks briskly and quietly instead, nodding occasionally when someone says something to him or gives him a fist bump.

He feels oddly raw, as if he’s told just about everyone in the universe that he’s in love with the most unattainable man on the planet, and they're all looking back at him with varying degrees of pity.

His bandmates congregate in the green room, still riding their own adrenaline high, and Teddy only nods to them and accepts the back slaps and handshakes as he walks past them, hoping to hide before Jack, his manager, can find him and corner him.

He doesn’t succeed.

Jack, dressed as usual in an impeccable suit, is leaning with one heel against the wall opposite Teddy’s dressing room. Jack’s tall, imposing figure is somewhat softened by the long, ash-brown curls that sweep off his pale forehead.  He pushes himself off the wall as soon as he spots Teddy, clearly intending to follow Teddy inside.

Teddy sighs; he had hoped to hide for at least half an hour before Jack could find him, if only to psych himself up for the meet and greet he knew Jack had planned, even though Teddy had told him he was done with meet and greets for the rest of his tour.

It’s not that he doesn’t appreciate his fans—he loves them more than anything. But it’s the last leg of the tour, he’s finally home, and he’s exhausted. All he wants is to go back to his flat _for once,_ instead of some stupid hotel room, and fall asleep. Possibly contemplate how he can acquire a time-turner and erase what he’d just done on stage.

“Edward,” Jack says briskly as Teddy approaches. “Brilliant show as usual.”

“Thanks.” Teddy fumbles with the door to his room, jamming the card his stage manager had slipped into his pocket into the door.

“We have to talk about the band,” Jack says from behind him. “I know you want to put this off—”

Teddy pushes open the door and walks into a large dressing room that looks more like a hotel room than anything else. “I’m not trying to put it off.”

Jack raises his index finger to shush him in that annoying way of his and shuts the door behind them.

Teddy rolls his eyes and bends over to unlace his boots.

“You’ve been avoiding me, Ted.” Jack picks up the remote and turns off the huge flat screen TV, then tosses it onto the sofa. “I know you don’t want to think about this, but like it or not, Varlan may very well be leaving us.”

Teddy straightens abruptly, watching as Jack slips out of his expensive jacket and throws it onto the sofa as well. “He actually said that to you?”

 “No, he hasn’t spoken to me _yet,’_ Jack says, folding his beefy arms across his chest.  “But I’ve told you—Sinclair’s been nosing around, trying to offer him a contract. Varlan is almost 31. He’s been in this business for years. This is his chance to move on.”

“But he’s...” Teddy trails off. Truth be told, his band mates change as often as Teddy’s sets, but this last group’s been with him for almost the whole tour, and he’d hoped that they’d stay even longer. Particularly Varlan, who could pick up his cues and harmonies as if he were reading Teddy’s mind.

Jack crosses the room and puts a hand on his shoulder. “Mate. I get it. This is the hard part for a solo artist. Your band is going to change. A lot. I know you and Varlan sync like no one else, but think of his career. He’s a star in his own right, and we both know why he hasn’t made it yet. If Sinclair wants to rep him, he might make it.”

“I know. _I know_ … I don’t mean to be selfish. I just hoped we’d make it to the next tour together.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll find you someone just as good as Varlan.” Jack nudges Teddy’s shoulder playfully. “And just as hot.”

Teddy laughs and shrugs out of his jeans and t-shirt, plucking his wand out of its holster and resting it on the large wooden table littered with sheet music and show schedules, and papers scribbled with lyrics next to Teddy’s laptop and phone.

“What did Damien want you to wear for the meet and greet?” Jack asks, walking over to his closet.

“Dunno,” Teddy says, absently glancing at his social media notifications. They’re blowing up, and he doesn’t even want to chance a proper look to see why.  “It’s in there, somewhere. He left a note.”

Teddy slips into the bathroom and ducks into the shower before Jack can tell him that a quick freshening charm will do.  He closes his eyes under the spray and groans in embarrassment when he thinks about his grand admission on stage.

Jack knocks on the doorframe and yells into the bathroom. “Don’t wank in there, Ted! You’ve only got ten minutes till the meet and greet.”

“Oh my god, shut up you pervert,” Teddy yells back.

He can hear Jack’s laughter as he quickly lathers his hair, concentrating briefly as he changes it to a pale lavender instead of the acid green it was previously. He loves pushing the envelope of disbelief, seeing how far Muggles will go to find a way to explain his changing look.

After a quick scrub of the important bits, he turns off the spray and grabs a towel from the shelf, and when he steps out with it wrapped around his waist, haphazardly drying his hair, Jack is mixing them each a drink from the bar. Teddy raises an eyebrow.

“What?” Jack asks with a careless shrug. “You’re old enough now. We can have a drink together after a show.”

Teddy laughs. “I’m English, Jack. I’ve been drinking since I was a child.”

He takes the drink and knocks it back. When he glances up, Jack’s expression is serious, his brown eyes fixed on Teddy’s face.

“I heard what you said onstage,” he says.

Teddy nods and reaches around Jack, then pours himself another drink. “And?”

Jack sighs. “Teddy, you know I’ve always been supportive. I could have used a heads up this time. I had to switch my phone off after it started vibrating non-stop. You’re trending on Twitter, by the way.”

Teddy closes his eyes briefly and takes a sip of his drink, “I didn’t mean to say it,” he says quietly. “It just came out.”

“I don’t think it’ll be as crazy as you think. The feedback has been overwhelmingly positive so far. A few trolls, of course, but there will always be trolls.”

Teddy stares down at his drink, his imagination wild with what the trolls are probably saying. “Yeah.”

“Teddy, mate.” Jack rests his glass down, “You know you can talk to me, right?”

Teddy nods but doesn’t say anything else.

Jack was, to his own chagrin, an inherently good person. He often claimed it was the reason why it took him so long to make it in the business—that he didn’t have a double-crossing bone in his body and wasn’t cut-throat enough as a result to make it before he’d met Teddy.

On the night Teddy recorded _Red,_ he’d gotten so uncharacteristically high that Jack had pulled him aside to ask why that one song seemed to tear him to shreds. So, it was Jack to whom Teddy opened up to for the very first time about Ron. Jack knew why even though there were many prospects for romance in his life—men who passed through his hotel rooms—there was never anyone who made it past one night.

 Jack, being an Irish, Muggle-born wizard, knew exactly who Ron Weasley was, and, in particular, who he was in relation to Teddy. He’d understood immediately, the complexity of the relationship, and thankfully, he never pitied Teddy—at least, never to Teddy’s face.  

Teddy drains the rest of his drink and sets the glass down with a thud. “There’s nothing to talk about, Jack,” he says. “Same old story.”

Jack eyes him a moment longer and then tosses him his outfit for the night—a black jumper and acid wash jeans—simple and functional, thank Merlin.

“Get dressed. Eileen says people are already lining up, and it’s a decent bunch. No crazies this time.”

“No obvious ones at least,” Teddy says, thinking about the one fan who had tried to steal the T-shirt right off his back on the first leg of the tour.

He dresses quickly, shoving his wand back in place before he pulls up his jeans and Jack aims a drying charm at his hair in exasperation.

Teddy walks up to the oversized mirror and Vanishes the dark circles beneath his eyes, makes his skin a little more lively and less pale, then touches up the usual subtle changes he wears as Edward Lycan, details which might slip when he gets too tired or when he’s distracted.

He takes a deep breath and refocuses, then nods to Jack. Jack, in turn, whips out his cell phone and lets Eileen, his stage manager, know that it’s showtime again.

Edward Lycan is on his way to meet his fans.

 

                                                                     *

 

It’s a short meet and greet. The crowd is a pleasant mix of older and younger fans, each clutching copies of CDs, records, and posters for him to sign. By the end of it all, Teddy’s face is aching with the strain of holding a smile, but he’d be lying if he said he didn't love it.

Being close and one-on-one with the people who inspire his music, who he thinks of on the days he'd rather not get out of bed for another practice, is always a humbling experience. He has no clue why they’re so crazy about him, but he’s immensely thankful that they are.

One of the last fans—a middle-aged woman with tattoos all over her body—reaches the front of the line. He greets her with a charming grin and a wink.

“Hullo, love,” he says, reaching to shake her hand. “What’s your name?”

“Louise!”

“That’s a gorgeous name. Thanks for coming out, Louise.”

She clutches her poster and CD, then fumbles in her pocket for her phone. “Can I take a picture with you, Edward?”

“Of course you can, darling. Only, call me Ed.” He opens his arms wide and she blushes a fiery red and almost drops her phone in her haste to get closer to him and take a selfie.

Jack’s always told him that his fans are half in love with him precisely because he’s too nice, too willing to let them hold him in a hug; he gives too many smiles and too many winks.

 “Try, at least,” he’d said one morning after a fan had almost fainted when he smiled and waved at her in the lobby of their hotel, “to be a little more elusive, Teddy. You’re entirely too accessible; you’re going to get yourself a stalker.”

Thankfully, nothing worse than a few fainting fans (he always thought that stuff was rubbish that only existed on old Beetles footage, but apparently it’s a thing) and a few overeager hands has ever happened.

As he chats with Louise some more, Jack begins rounding up the remaining fans and herding them to the exit. Teddy signs a couple more last-minute autographs and takes a few more pics, enjoying the look of delight on a teenage boy’s face as Teddy takes his phone and photo bombs his Instagram story.

He becomes distracted, though, when suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he spots Jack walking briskly to the entrance of the green room, a smile on his face. When Teddy spots who he’s greeting, his heart seems to skyrocket and plummet all at once.

He knows his face by heart—every freckle, every smile line, the faint scar above his eyebrow and the gentle curve of that lush mouth. Nothing’s changed about his too-long hair—it still curls over his ears and the strands at his crown still flop over each other like gentle licks of flame. The strong jawline that Teddy has always admired is now covered with a full beard that he absently tugs as he greets Jack with a small smile.

Ron Weasley leans casually against the wall, a backstage pass around his neck, and Teddy can’t take his eyes off him. He stands behind Harry as Harry greets Jack with the kind of enthusiasm and energy that only Harry can muster. Ron’s dressed like a Muggle—brown leather jacket and blue jeans, a pair of sunglasses clipped into his black tee. He looks up and catches Teddy’s gaze and he smiles, giving Teddy a thumbs-up as another fan pulls his gaze away, asking again for another picture.  

Even as he stands still to take the shot, and then another, he can feel Ron’s gaze on him. More than a little distracted, Teddy almost completely fucks up the last of his autographs, until all his fans are gone and it’s only him and a few techs standing in the middle of the green room, his heart an unsteady hammering mess.

Harry waves at him from across the room like a weirdo. It’s the same wide grin he wore when he sent Teddy off to Hogwarts for the first time, and Teddy rolls his eyes and waves back. One of the tech guys removes his mic and the behind-the-scenes body cam they use for social media. As soon as the tech leaves, Teddy hops over the couch and launches himself into Harry's arms for a back-slapping hug and overly-tight squeeze.

 As usual, Harry hangs on for a few seconds too long and Teddy groans, “Harry, you’re smothering me.”

Harry pulls away quickly, a grin still plastered on his face, “That was the most amazing show I’ve ever seen, Teddy. Honestly. The best you’ve ever done.”

Teddy’s face heats. “You saw the whole thing?” He glances behind Harry where Jack and Ron are having some kind of strange conversation and Ron examines their backstage passes as though he’s never seen one before.

It’s quite possible, though, that Ron never has. He seems to be observing the barcode in fascination and asking Jack to scan it on his phone. His continued fascination with anything Muggle makes Teddy’s heart swell with a fondness that almost hurts.

Ron was there. He’d heard the song.

He’d heard the song, and now he’s here, and in a few moments, Teddy will have to face him. He glances longingly at the exit as Harry continues on, oblivious to Teddy’s dilemma.

 “Of course we watched the whole thing,” he says, giving Teddy a playful shove. “Would we miss any of it? Kerouac set us up weeks ago as a birthday surprise.”  

Teddy tears his eyes away from Ron for a moment and murmurs, “His name’s not Kerouac.” It’s a useless protest, as Harry had decided to start calling Jack 'Kerouac' ever since he went on his strange 'On The Road’ kick and decided to become a beatnik.

Teddy’s almost one-hundred percent sure Harry doesn’t exactly understand _what_ a beatnik is (neither does Teddy for that matter),but that doesn’t stop Harry from dropping Kerouac quotes at the most inopportune moments—usually when they’re high together, with little to no context or relevance. “Also, your birthday was a month ago.”

Harry only smiles and pushes his glasses up his nose. “Well, seeing as you were in Australia for my birthday, I think I’ll take this one.”

As usual, Harry looks effortlessly powerful and imposing, dressed in a simple button-down shirt and jeans, his aura shining as bright as a beacon. Teddy’s only grateful that Flora, his drummer, isn’t around to gush over him. She’s had a crush on Harry ever since she met him at the very first show of their tour.

“So,” Teddy says, stuffing his hands in his pockets, his eyes drifting back to Ron almost out of habit. “Ron’s here.”

Harry glances back briefly. “Oh, yeah. Just for a month or so. You know him.”

Teddy nods. “Yeah, I do.”

Ron finally looks up and grins, patting Jack on the back and leaving him as he crosses the room in a few, long strides. Ron edges closer, pulls Teddy in for a bone-crushing hug, and Teddy’s heart goes into overdrive.

He tries not to hold on too tight or too long, but he can’t help himself as he takes a deep breath. Ron has always smelled of leather and wood and sage, along with something else Teddy can't quite name, but which makes his heart feel both incredibly full and inconsolably empty all at once.

Ron pulls away. He smiles down at him, his hands on Teddy’s shoulders, making Teddy feel all of ten years old. “That show, Teddy. You’re just… you’re  _bloody amazing,_ mate. I’m…” Ron laughs self-consciously and drops his hands, running a hand over his beard again. “I didn’t know you could do all that, Ted. Truly.”

Harry knocks into Ron playfully, “What Ron’s trying to say is that he _fangirled_ you for most of the show.”

 “Shut up, Potter,” Ron says with a breathless laugh. “You sound like your son.”

“So did you when you were screaming your head off! It was like we were back in second year and your voice had just broken.”

Ron kicks Harry’s boot and Harry hops away with a burst of indignant laughter.

Not for the first time, Teddy wishes desperately that he were older. That he’d grown up alongside Harry and Ron, and that _he_ could be part of the way they have with each other. The way they could carry on a full conversation with only a few glances or a raised eyebrow. Maybe then, Ron could finally _see_ him.

 “Your godfather's a wanker,” Ron says with feeling before turning to Teddy and flashing him a disarming grin. “You were brilliant, mate. I bought your CD. Not sure what I’ll play it on, though. Reckon I should have gone for the record.”

 Not letting his mind linger on the image of Ron screaming (for him!) while also trying to pretend his face isn’t on fire, Teddy makes an awkward one-armed, shrug _-_ gesture-thing that he immediately wants to kill himself for. “You didn’t have to! I would have given you one.”

“No way, mate. I had to support you, didn’t I? Will you sign it for me?”

Teddy has to swallow several times before he can speak without embarrassing himself. “Of course!” Ron hands him the CD and he cracks it open with shaking hands, then signs it with a pen from his pocket. He hands it back to Ron, who handles it like precious cargo. “Thanks, Ron, I’m just—truly, I’m dead chuffed that you’re even here.”

Ron smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I only Portkeyed in this morning. Came straight over to see you.”

The thing with Ron—why Teddy is certain he has it so bad—is that he often says things like this without thought. Things that make Teddy’s heart go places it will only break.

 Teddy knows—has always known—that Ron, while open and friendly to most, is an extremely guarded and reserved man of few friends. That he considers _Teddy_ important enough to be so demonstrative of his loyalty is a gift, and one Teddy covets as often as he can.

Caught speechless, he makes a study of Ron’s face. It’s the first time he’s ever seen Ron as anything but clean-shaven, and he’d hadn’t realised until now that it was something he’d been missing out on. He stares long enough for the moment to become awkward, but strangely, Ron doesn’t look away, he only mirrors Teddy’s contemplation with a study of his own

Teddy’s mouth becomes resolutely dry as Ron’s gaze drops to his lips, and he licks them self-consciously. That electric blue gaze turns full of _something,_ and it makes the back of Teddy’s neck heat and his stomach clench with anticipation.

Harry loudly clears his throat and they both jump, but when Teddy glances at his godfather, Harry isn’t even looking at Teddy. His gaze has gone past him because his bandmates, Finch, Flora and Astrid are anxiously hovering at the doorway. Teddy’s heart drops. Astrid is tugging at her dreadlocks the way she does when she’s anxious, and Finch’s already pale face is even paler and pinched with worry. They must have heard about Varlan’s rumoured departure as well.

Flora’s dark gaze lands on Teddy. “Can we talk?”

“Oh yeah, of course. Just give me a mo.” Teddy looks back at Harry and Ron,not wanting to say goodbye. Who knows when he’ll see Ron again without all of their families looking over their shoulders? “You both should come to the club later. We’re having an after-party thing for a few hours. You’d like it.”

Harry shakes his head, “I’m done for, Ted,” he says regretfully. “I couldn’t make it if I tried.”

Teddy’s heart drops, certain that if Harry doesn’t come along, there’s no way Ron would consider it. As self-destructive as it is (and god, isn’t it just _so_ self-destructive), he wants to spend the night with Ron. Even if Ron will be leaving in a few weeks, even with all Teddy’s bandmates serving as a buffer between them.

He makes himself look at Ron and tries to school his features into something impassive—tries to make it seem as if his heart isn’t riding on Ron’s answer. “What about you?”

Ron doesn’t say anything for a beat. His expression is as inscrutable as ever, but then he nods. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Yeah, I’ll come.”

“Yeah?” Teddy cringes inwardly at the eagerness in his voice. He glances back at Varlan and dithers for a moment. “Will you ask Jack to give you the coordinates? I’ll meet you there.”

Ron nods. “Okay.” He turns to Harry. “Come on, mate, help me find Kerouac and you can get home for your precious kip.”

Harry looks at the two of them for a moment, then merely shrugs as he pulls Teddy in for another hug.

“Have fun, Ted,” he says in his ear before he pulls away. He pinches Teddy’s cheek and Teddy shoves him away.

“Gerroff, you maniac!”

Harry only laughs, and, after another heated look from Ron, they both depart.

 

 ~

 

 

The name of the club is _Heat,_ and their group is the loudest and rowdiest on the dance floor. The VIP booth is strewn with bottles of champagne, beer, and liquor glasses, as well as abandoned Dragonhide boots and leather jackets. Their security subtly keeps watch over Teddy and his bandmates as they proceed to get drunk and sing Teddy’s songs loudly enough to nearly drown out the music blaring from every speaker.

 After about hour of this hype though, Varlan hands him a blunt. It’s a blend of high-grade mallowsweet, valerian and hemp, and Teddy retreats to the corner booth alone, floating easily between the cusp of a pleasant mellow and mind-numbing intoxication.

Ron, for whatever reason, has chosen to stay away from him for most of the night, mingling instead with Jack and Teddy’s bandmates and crew.

 Flora Lee, his drummer, has Ron trapped in conversation for the past twenty minutes (about Merlin knows what), and Teddy watches from his seat in the corner booth, irrationally annoyed. He angrily sucks on the tip of the blunt as Ron leans close to Flora, and she murmurs something in his ear.

His chest tightens as Ron laughs, and he takes a deep pull just to ease the tension. There’s nothing like Ron’s smile; the way his eyes crinkle at the corners and the hidden dimple in his left cheek suddenly appears like sunrise. Teddy closes his eyes and lets himself float—lets his mind wander to places it shouldn’t. He imagines what it would be to wake up to that smile—to come home to that smile. To be the cause of that smile.

When he opens his eyes again, Ron’s gaze is fixed on him, even as he talks to Flora. He takes a swig of his beer and Teddy’s gaze is trapped by the way Ron’s throat works, and the way he absently lets the rim of the bottle linger on his lower lip.

Ron says something in parting to Flora. He kisses her on the cheek and then crosses the room to sit beside Teddy so quickly that Teddy barely has time to process the change in events.

Ron wordlessly takes the blunt from him and sucks a deep drag, causing the end to flicker orange. He sighs deeply, exhaling a thick plume of smoke before taking a few more hits, stubbing it out and turning to face Teddy. He is so close that Teddy can feel the heat radiating from his body.

“That stuff’s strong,” he says, stretching his long legs out before him with a deep sigh.

“Var makes it himself.” The words float out of Teddy’s mouth with little effort. Almost every muscle in his body is in a state of deep relaxation. He smiles lazily and plucks Ron’s beer from his fingertips, taking a long sip as Ron watches him with that same inscrutable expression.

“I'm glad you're here,” Teddy says.

“Yeah?”

Teddy hands him back the beer. “Definitely.”

Ron takes another long sip then licks his lips, and Teddy has to tear his gaze away from Ron’s mouth. Ron leans back comfortably into the soft velvet cushions behind them and Teddy does the same.

They sit beside each other for what seems like an eternity, thighs and shoulders pressed together. Teddy leans his head back and closes his eyes, riding the high, uncertain whether it’s the drug that’s making him float, or Ron’s presence beside him. He begins to contemplate what it would be like to simply slide into Ron's lap, to straddle him, to feel those firm hands on his arse, Ron's fingers digging into his hips...

“Teddy….” Ron’s voice is almost breathless.

Teddy’s eyes flick open and he turns to find Ron staring at him with an expression of helpless confusion, his gaze fixed on Teddy’s neck. “You’re not making this easy.”

“Dance with me,” Teddy says, widening his legs so that their thighs press more insistently together.

Ron looks at him for almost too long until he abruptly stands, reaching out his hand. Teddy stands and takes it, then leads them to the dancefloor, only half-aware of the others clearing a path before them.

The dancefloor is still full of gyrating bodies, and once there, Ron tugs him close, draping his arms across Teddy's shoulders as he leans down to say something into Teddy’s ear.

“I’m a terrible dancer, you know.”

Teddy smiles, unable to say how much it doesn’t matter—how much he doesn’t care if Ron can’t even follow a rhythm, because _finally_ , Ron is pressed against him. The heat between them rises like electric current, sparking at his fingertips, and he runs them along Ron's sides.

Ron’s unsteady breaths brush against Teddy’s earlobe, and Teddy closes his eyes as they sway together until the beat of the music matches the beats of their hearts.

Teddy hooks his fingers into the belt loops of Ron's jeans and rests his forehead on Ron’s shoulder. His lips brush lightly over Ron’s clavicle, and Teddy smiles at the shudder that runs through Ron’s full body.

Ron drops his mouth to Teddy’s ear once more. “This is crazy, T,” he says in a breathy murmur. “What are we doing?”

Teddy lets his mouth graze Ron’s neck as he lifts onto his tiptoes to respond. “Don’t think about it. Just dance with me.”

Ron lets his hand fall to Teddy’s sides. Teddy presses his hip against Ron’s thigh, arches his back in a slow roll, and spreads his thighs as Ron’s leg slips between his. Ron groans and grabs Teddy’s hips, stilling him, his fingers neatly slipping inside Teddy’s low-slung waistband.

Teddy leans back and looks up to study Ron’s expression, to see if maybe he’s pushed too far, but Ron has his eyes tightly closed. His fingers spasm against the flesh above Teddy's hip bones.

Teddy rolls his hips again, but Ron shakes his head sharply without opening his eyes, digging his fingers into Teddy's hips, holding him still.

When Ron finally opens his eyes, his expression is almost unreadable, but his hands slowly ghost along Teddy’s sides until his fingers brush the barbells in Teddy’s nipples, and it’s Teddy’s turn to shudder.

Ron’s gaze goes heavy-lidded with want, and he leans down again to speak. His breath against the shell of Teddy's ear causes Teddy to shudder so badly he has to hold on to Ron’s biceps for a moment to catch himself.

“Are these pierced?” Ron asks breathily as he brushes Teddy’s nipples again.

Teddy nods, unable to speak, and Ron lets his hands wander to Teddy’s sides again, seeming at a loss for what to do next. Teddy tilts his head to press a kiss against Ron’s jaw, and the brush of his lips against Ron’s skin seems to give him a jolt back into reality. He pulls away, creating some distance between them, though he keeps a tight grip on Teddy’s hip.

“We can’t do this, T,” he says, looking around as if suddenly remembering where they are. “I think I should go.”

Teddy tries not to let his face fall as Ron disengages from him and pushes his hands into his pockets.

Teddy swallows thickly. He takes Ron by the elbow, gently leading them somewhere they can Disapparate.

They push through the crowd and head to the back of the club, past the security who lets them out with a nod, and into the empty alleyway. 

Once outside, Ron turns to him wide-eyed. “Teddy, we really can’t—”

Teddy stops him from going any further by pressing a gentle finger against Ron’s lips. “Come to my show tomorrow,” he says. “It’s a Wizarding gig in the Hog’s Head. Nothing like what you saw today. It’s more...intimate.”

Ron gently removes Teddy’s finger from his mouth but doesn’t release his hand. He squeezes Teddy’s fingers slightly, seemingly gearing himself up to say something.

“Ted,” he says quietly. “Tell me the truth. Was it really about me?”

Teddy doesn’t even consider pretending to not know what he’s talking about. He simply nods and then, for some reason, he says, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Ron tries to speak again, hesitates, then smiles briefly. “I’ll be there tomorrow.”

“Good.”

Ron takes two steps backwards, flicks his wand into his palm in an expert gesture and Disapparates.

Faced with the loneliness of the empty alleyway and the bleak, stale air, Teddy sags against the wall, partly in relief, partly in frustration, and then he Disapparates.


	2. PART II: Ron

**PART II**

**Ron**

 

He wakes up hard.

Ron sits up and throws his covers aside, staring down at his dick in exasperation. “You’re going to get us both into a load of trouble if you don’t pull yourself together, mate.”

He flops back onto the bed in a manner most undignified and casts a quick Tempus charm. It’s already almost three in the afternoon, and he’s only just roused himself for the day. It’s to be expected, though. He supposes that’s what he gets for acting like he’s still in his twenties, staying out until three in the morning the same day he caught a series of Portkeys from Quebec, then New York, and back to Scotland, and after only under an hour or two of stolen sleep between his house calls. He’s jetlagged as hell, hungry—and, on top of that—sexually frustrated.

“He’s twenty-one, Weasley. Leave. It. Alone.” Still, Ron closes his eyes, remembering the feel of Teddy’s soft-as-sin skin under his hands, the sounds he made on the dancefloor, the way those light grey eyes tracked his movements all night. Ron had never felt quite so  _wanted_ before.

And then there was the song.

The bloody song.

Hermione had told him about it, of course. A few months ago, she’d heard it on the internet, and had rung him on the mobile she’d got him to ask if he’d ever listened to it (he hadn’t.) Then she freaked him out by quietly asking if she should tell him about it, and what she thought it meant  _for Ron_. Of course he had said yes—she was scaring him, calling in the middle of the bloody night to talk about Teddy’s songs—and she’d explained that she thought Teddy had written it for  _him_.  He had scoffed, told her to get her bloody head checked, and they’d never spoke of it again.

How could it be that he had been so blind to that kind of want?

If Teddy were younger, Ron might be able to chalk it up to a teenage crush, but Teddy isn’t a kid anymore. He's all man now. While his frame is still slight, and he's still a few inches shorter than Ron, there’s nothing kid-like about the hard muscles beneath his skin, or the heavy weight of his cock as it brushed against his thigh last night. He’d almost taken Teddy home there and then, but… Harry would probably kill him if he knew the things that Ron wanted to do to his godson, that was for sure.

Rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand, he groans loudly into the silence of the cottage. It’s been his and Hermione’s since they bought it almost ten years ago, thinking perhaps that they’d eventually live here together. Now, that couldn’t be farther from the truth. They both still co-own it, but they’re lucky to be in the same house together for more than a week, much less on the same continent.

The Floo chimes loudly, and—half-grateful, half-annoyed—he fumbles around in his underwear drawer so he can at least get semi-decent in order to answer it. It will be Harry coming to check on him, no doubt, wanting to see for himself that his godson isn’t in Ron’s bed looking thoroughly shagged.

He’s not ashamed of it (mostly), but over the years, Harry has found Ron in many compromising positions, not the least of which had involved Blaise Zabini or Hermione, (and on one memorable occasion, the both of them at once.)

He walks to the Floo in only a tight pair of boxer briefs and lets Harry pass onto the grate.

Harry eyes him and raises an eyebrow. “This is how you answer the Floo these days?”

“I’m still recovering from last night.” Ron walks grumpily into the kitchen, with Harry trailing behind, pleased to see that, as usual, Hermione’s left it fully stocked after her brief stay only a week prior.

There’s eggs and bacon in the preservation box, and some bread that only looks slightly stale sitting in the pantry. He starts a quick fry up, absently scratching his stomach while Harry shadows him for a while.

At Ron’s annoyed look, he gets out of the way and sits on a stool at the butcher’s block.  “This cottage is holding up really well,” Harry says, drumming his fingers on the table top.

“Erm…yeah? It’s not that old, mate. Hermione and I are really good about maintenance charms when we’re away.”

 Harry nods. “Yeah, that’s brilliant.”

 Ron scrapes at the pan, mixing the cooking eggs and bacon into an incoherent mess before grabbing the spatula and dumping the mixture onto a plate with a bit of bread. When he turns around, Harry's expression is suspiciously blank.

 “So.” Harry draws out the word and raises one dark eyebrow at him expectantly.

Ron refuses to rise to his bait. He rests his plate onto the countertop and gives Harry a patently bland stare. “So?”

“So…are we going to talk about this?”

 “About what?” Ron drops onto a stool and Summons a fork, determined to dig into his eggs and mentally avoid every part of this dreadful conversation.

“Ron, come on. I know you.” Harry Summons a fork as well and steals some egg, completely oblivious to Ron’s scowl. “I know my godson,” he continues around a mouthful. “And I know what my godson wants.”

“Okay.”

“Okay…so. You… want to say anything about last night?”

“Nope.”

“No?”

Ron shoves a forkful of eggs into his mouth and gives Harry a long, baleful look. “Nope.”

Harry lifts his hands in a kind of surrender. “Ok, mate. Just…you know. When you’re ready. We can talk about it. I’m not going to freak out.”

Ron scoffs. “Aren’t you?”

“Maybe a little? He’s only twenty-one—”

“I know how old he is, Harry,” Ron says wearily, breaking off a chunk of bread and scooping up a bit of bacon with it.

“Just don’t…you know...hurt him, okay?”

“Why would I ever hurt him? For Merlin’s sake Harry, I’m not a cad.”

“I never said you were, though the argument could be made for it.” Harry laugh as Ron chucks a bit of bread at his head. “But you know,” Harry continues, undeterred by Ron’s attack. “You and Hermione…?”

“Me and Hermione?”

Harry meets Ron’s gaze squarely for a moment, then looks away almost guiltily. “You know what I mean, Ron. Everyone thinks you and her are endgame.”

Ron has to take a moment to breathe before he can answer. “I think by  _everyone_ , you mean you, Ginny and my mother.”

“We just know it’s only a matter of time before you’re together again.”

Ron rests his fork on his plate. “Harry…we broke up six years ago.”

“And… you haven’t slept together since?”

Ron flicks the end of Harry’s nose with his middle finger, and he squawks. “None of your business, mate.”

“I know it’s not but….seriously, Ron? Can you blame us for thinking you’re both just waiting on each other to settle down? Because that’s what it seems like. You always fall back into old habits, and you’re still so close. I know for a fact that every person you date is worried about having to live up to Hermione Granger.”

“Who the hell has ever said that to you?”

“It doesn’t matter, and that’s not the point.” Harry breaks off a piece of bread and dunks it into the eggs. “I just don’t see—"

“No, you don’t, and honestly, Harry,  I love you, but we’re not going to discuss Hermione, all right? Me and her…we want different things. And we’re not going to get that from each other.  _Ever._  I wish you’d take me seriously when I tell you it’s  _not_  going to happen.”

Harry eyes him for a moment, and then he nods. “Okay,” he says. “I get you.”

One of the reasons their friendship hasn’t burst into flames, despite them both being the angstiest, most passionate motherfuckers they both know, is that if Ron ever asks Harry to back off, he always does. He’s always given Ron time to come around to talking about whatever’s on his mind when he’s ready. It’s one of the many reasons he still loves Harry like a brother.

Ron sighs and flicks his wand at the kettle on the range for tea. “I’m not going to hurt Teddy, Harry.”

“Just…if you need to… you can talk about what’s happening between the two of  you with me.”

“Nothing’s happening.”

Harry doesn’t even dignify the lie with a response, so Ron decides to change topics entirely.

“What about you and your other half? He settle in ok?”

Harry toys with a piece of bacon, a frown creasing his face. “Draco is… Draco,” he says contemplatively. Then a small smile blooms on his face. “Him moving in was almost an explosive affair.”

Ron laughs. “Did he make you get rid of that ridiculous Nargle sculpture Luna pawned off on you?”

Harry laughs. “He barely noticed it. He was too busy making sure the movers didn’t touch his potions ingredients.” 

“Dammit. I had hope.” Ron could only imagine Malfoy living in Harry's and James’ mess of a bungalow, with its creaking floors and charming threadbare rugs, cauldrons, and books on the staircase, and James’ frequent ‘experiments’ driving all of Godric’s Hollow barmy.

He’d seen enough of the prat’s strange quirks when he and Hermione shared a flat during their time at Mallard’s, the Advanced Wizarding institute that Hermione, Blaise and Draco had attended after Hogwarts. The way he was oblivious to almost everything unless it somehow involved potions-making or Harry himself. Those were a strange few years, shagging Hermione with Malfoy in the next room, and when Ron enrolled to do a few courses of his own, it was even stranger being in a classroom with him again. Always half-expecting Malfoy to take a crack at him, but he was lucky if Malfoy even noticed Ron’s comings and goings. He was like an absent-minded professor even then, his nose buried in his books, his fingers constantly wrapped around a quill.

The weirdo.

But Harry loves him, and Ron supposes that’s enough for him to try to tolerate the git.

“So, you’re both happy with it then? After three years of pretending you weren’t shagging at every opportunity?”

The kettle makes a loud whistle, and Harry gets up to make tea for them both. “We weren’t pretending.”

“Uh huh.”

“We were working things out.”

“Sure.”

“Ginny hadn’t divorced me yet, if you recall.”

“But you split even before Hermione and I did. Everyone knew it was going to happen.”

“Well, we weren’t so sure.” Harry brings over their tea and sits back down, reaching over to steal another slice of bacon. 

 “Ta,” Ron murmurs, taking a sip and sighing. Harry was always brilliant at tea. “He get on with my godson?”

“They’re holed up in Draco’s lab as we speak. Kicked me out to try some sort of experiment that looked like something Fred and George would come up with.  I don’t ask questions any more.”

Harry leans forward, his elbows against the countertop, looking strangely earnest and impossibly young.  “What do you think?”

“Me?” Ron asks, surprised.

“About… you know. Draco and me. Moving in. Us three trying the family thing. You think it’s a disaster, right?”

 “Maybe it is, mate, but what’s the alternative?”

Harry’s gaze flickers quickly away. “We’d been living the alternative. Sneaking in the Manor at all hours of the night. Trying to keep everything quiet. Never having time alone. It exhausted me. It exhausted us both. I had James on my own, and I could only see Draco when our schedules happened to both fit. This way, it works, you know. Having him with me all day, every day. I—it’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

Ron’s chest aches a little bit at that. That was all he’s ever wanted, too.  Someone for his own. Someone he didn’t have to share with anyone else.  As it turns out, he hasn’t found it yet.

Maybe he never will.

He swallows his own sob story and smiles at his best mate, happy for him in a way most people would never understand. “Then that’s all you need. It’ll work out between you two. I have a feeling.”

Harry smiles at him so dreamily that Ron rolls his eyes and chucks a particularly stale bit of bread at the very centre of his head.

 

*

 

The rest of the day follows at the same languorous pace. He gets himself decent and visits his mother before she can get word that he’s been in the country for more than a minute and hasn’t been by to let her rinse his ears about all the fine witches he could be married to if only he’d settle down.

After spending time with her and his dad, answering unsubtle questions about Hermione’s whereabouts, avoiding Percy, and begging Bill to share one of his cigarettes out in the back garden, Ron returns to an eagle owl perched impatiently just outside the cottage window. 

It’s dark feathered and imperious, and, as Ron has learned over the years, outrageously loyal to his owner, Blaise Zabini.

“Hello then, Mr. Banks, got a letter for me, do you?” Ron asks as he approaches.

As usual, Banks nips his fingers harshly for making him wait, and Ron sucks on the sore spot for a moment, grumbling a bit before he can open the missive.

 

_Weasley,_

_You wanker, why didn’t you say you were in England? I have to hear about your remarkable presence on these shores from Draco before I hear it from you? We’re having drinks at The Three Broomsticks tonight, and that’s final._

_P.S. Wear those Muggle trousers I like so, will you?_

_P.S.S Be nice to Banksford._

_-B_

           

Ron checks his watch, and it’s already almost nine in the evening. Before he can second guess it, he sends a reply asking Blaise to meet him in 45 minutes.

Banksford takes his missive and leaves in a huff of feathers, and Ron stares out after him, wondering if he’s about to land himself in another mountain load of trouble.

He and Blaise have been on-and-off-again for over six years, and every time they’ve been on the same continent, some way or another, they’ve ended up in each other’s beds.

But now…with Teddy on his mind, he’s not sure he can do it.

Ron closes his eyes and reminds himself that Teddy is now more off limits than ever. Harry would never have come to him if he wasn’t genuinely worried. Ron wonders exactly when he’d earned the reputation of a heartbreaker.

He heads to the bedroom and pulls out the requested trousers, a pair of jeans Hermione bought for him  _years_ ago when Ron was at least a few pounds lighter, before he’d started packing on the muscle in his late thirties that he had desperately wished for in his twenties. He’d always been a late bloomer, and all his lonely gym sessions have finally paid off for something. Blaise, at least, loves the way it hugs his thighs and arse.

Ron wonders what Teddy will make of it.

He had said he’d go to Teddy’s show, but that was when he was still high off adrenaline and lust, and if he goes, he knows exactly what will happen. After his talk with Harry today, he’s pretty sure anything between him and Teddy will only come to disaster.

Because Harry is right. He will hurt Teddy.

Not because he’s in love with Hermione, like everyone thinks—though he  _is_  in love with her, and probably always will be, he’s not foolish enough to deny that. He and Teddy will destroy each other because, much like he and Hermione, they both want different things. He knows that Teddy, as much he might think his feelings for Ron are all-encompassing at the moment, is not in love. Ron knows what lust looks like. It looks like Teddy’s gaze when it lingers on Ron’s throat. It feels like Teddy’s hands on Ron’s waist. And he’s not going to get caught up in that. Not again.

He can’t deny he wants Teddy. Anyone with eyes would want Teddy, with that mouth and those hips, those eyes and that electric current he exudes on the stage, like some sort of sex god. But Ron has done lust before, and it never pans out the way he wants it to. It always leaves him wanting more than anyone has been willing to give him.

But the thing about lust is that it’s always fun, and Ron can never seem to pass up a bit of fun. He’s never been one for public sex, but all he’d wanted last night was to shove Teddy up against the wall and take his arse right there. He wonders what kinds of sounds Teddy would make—if he’d let Ron choke him, if he’d say Ron’s name, if he could make Teddy come on his dick alone—but then he stops himself before he has to rub one out in the shower.

_Bad idea, Ron. It’s a bad idea._

He grabs a shirt and vest from his closet, giving them a quick sniff to make sure they’re clean, and tosses them on the bed. As he’s about to walk into the bath, his mobile rings.

It’s the first song of Teddy’s he’d ever heard on the Wizard Wireless, and he’d asked Hermione to make it his ringtone when he’d last seen her. If Teddy ever hears it, he’ll die of embarrassment.

He doesn’t recognise the number (though he doesn’t recognise most numbers, it all just seems like a never-ending string of digits to him) and so he cautiously answers after he strips off his t-shirt and gets started on his trouser buttons.

“This is Ron?” he says, half-breathless as he slips off his trousers and throws them haphazardly across the room. He rolls his eyes at himself. He always seems to answer the phone with an odd sort of  _question,_  because he’s never got used to greeting someone he can’t see.

It sounds ridiculous.

There’s a soft laugh on the line, and then, in that pleasant tenor Ron would recognise almost anywhere, Teddy speaks. “Ron, it’s me.”

Ron freezes, standing up straight and looking around although he knows by now that Teddy can’t actually see him. “Ted?”

A sigh of relief. “Yeah. I got your number from Harry. I hope it’s okay.”

“Of course. You know you can call me anytime, mate.”

A brief pause, the sounds of shuffling. “Yeah. That’s great. Um. I called, because I wondered if maybe you were still coming? To the show tonight? It’s ok if you’ve forgotten.”

Ron sits carefully on the bed, toying with the frayed edges of his jeans as he speaks. “I haven’t forgotten.”

“That’s… that’s good then.”

“Teddy I—”

“You can’t make it?”

Ron flops backwards on the bed, holding his phone to his ear. “It’s not that.”

“Can I see you?” Teddy asks suddenly. “Do you have video chat?”

“Erm. I do, but I’m not exactly…dressed.”

Teddy pauses for so long that Ron lifts the phone to check to see if the line is dead.

“You there?”

“You’re naked?” Teddy’s voice is a breathy, fragile thing.

Ron looks down at his navy-blue boxer briefs, “Not  _naked_. Not completely, anyway.” He can feel his ears growing hot, and he’s pretty sure his face is red. His dick is starting to get hard again and he closes his eyes, counting backwards from ten. “We shouldn’t be talking like this.”

“Like what?”

Ron laughs shortly. “You know what.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re—”

“If you call me a kid, I’ll send you a hex in your Floo.”

“You’re Harry’s godson.”

“Since I was born.”

“Harry’s my best mate.”

Teddy pauses, then says, “Since you’re not naked, let me see you, I’m switching to video.”

Ron groans, then holds his phone up and accepts the video chat. Teddy is in his bed, sitting upright against his headboard with his legs pulled up against his body, his chin resting atop his knee. Warm light illuminates his face, and Ron almost loses all breath because there’s no other way to describe the man before him except as  _stunning_. All inky black hair, light grey eyes, a deliciously red mouth with a cupid’s bow Ron could trace with his tongue. His hair falls in easy waves down to his shoulders, looking slightly damp as though he’s just washed it, and he’s in a long-sleeved, grey jumper that makes his eyes hypnotically translucent.

Teddy tilts his head to the side and gives Ron a slow smile. “You’re staring.”

Ron clears his throat. “This is you, isn’t it?” he says in a throaty voice he doesn’t quite recognise. “Just you, as you are.”

Teddy’s cheeks go pink, and he nods. “Needed a break from Edward Lycan, you know?”

Ron takes a deep breath, just barely stopping the words ‘ _You’re beautiful’_  from tumbling out of his mouth.

“So,” Teddy says with a wicked grin. “About those boxer briefs…”

A startled burst of laughter releases the tension in Ron’s chest. “The camera stays on my face, thank you very much.”

“Pity.”

“ _Teddy_.”

Teddy smiles and pushes his hair off his forehead. “Just say you’re coming later, and I’ll let you go back to whatever you were doing. In your underwear. Alone. In bed.”

Ron smiles again. “Cheeky bastard,” he murmurs, scratching his chest absentmindedly as he considers his options. He supposes he could meet Blaise for a pint or two, then head to Teddy’s show. Knowing Blaise, he’ll want to shag, but Ron can’t even think to do it, not with Teddy so much on his mind and under his skin…He closes his eyes, knowing that no matter what, Teddy's going to remain there for the next few days, weeks…months? And if he’s not careful….

He opens his eyes to find Teddy staring at him with such a heartfelt expression of desire that Ron can feel the burn of it, even through the distance.

If he’s not careful…

_Lust. That’s all this is, Weasley. It’s only lust. Don’t let it get a hold of you._

“I never could say no to you, Ted,” Ron says even before he knows his mouth is moving.

Teddy’s desperate gaze never wavers. “Then don’t.”

 *

Blaise hasn’t changed, not in the few months since Ron last saw him. As soon as Ron arrives at The Three Broomsticks, Blaise scrutinises his outfit—shirt, tie and vest, his jacket pushed up at the sleeves, jeans and boots, and nods with sanctimonious approval.

“Gorgeous as usual, Weasley,’ he says lazily. “Why do I get the impression I’m not your only appointment for tonight?”

Ron rolls his eyes. Blaise was always sharp as a knife.

“I’m supposed to go see Edward Lycan perform at the Hog’s Head in a bit.”

“Oh! Is that why they were closed up when I passed by?” Blaise pushes over a pint as Ron takes off his jacket and settles onto a stool. “So, he’s still doing the rebellious, brooding rock star thing, is he? I did see a face that looked vaguely like his on a poster.”

“He’s bloody good at it, too.” Ron sniffs his drink suspiciously. He’d never known Blaise to pass up an opportunity to encourage him into taking some kind of illicit potion, meant to make him higher than a Dragon in flight.

Blaise catches him at it and tuts. “You think I’d drug you without asking?”

“Yes, I do.” It was their routine. They’d meet up, Blaise would bring whatever drug was his favourite for the month, and they’d share a hit or two, get faded, then shag all over Blaise’s flat for most of the night. “You forget I’ve known you for many years,” Ron says sardonically, taking a hesitant sip. Just beneath the bitterness of the ale, is a slight tang of something not quite meant to be there. “What is it this time?”

“Does it matter? You always have fun when we do this.”

“Define this?”

Blaise gives him a curious look. “What—are you seeing someone then? Someone who won’t share? That's positively criminal.”

Ron hesitates, takes another sip of his drink, and sighs when the instant calming mellow of Blaise’s drugs begin to sink in. “It’s not that.”

Blaise leans back, looking at him seriously now. “You’ve fallen for someone?”

Ron laughs, but it’s a hollow thing. “I haven’t. I’m just not sure we should… do anything tonight.”

Blaise frowns. “You’re going to Lupin’s show, then?”

“You know he doesn’t perform by that name, Blaise. It’s Edward Lycan, but yes, I probably am.”

“Can I come with you?”

Ron hesitates.

“Come on…we’ll go, get high, shag like rabbits afterwards. It’ll be just like the last time we saw him in the States.”

“You don’t have a ticket.” 

Blaise raises an eyebrow. “Baby, you should know that I can get in just about anywhere I want to by now.”

Ron rolls his eyes, but then has to take a moment to breathe as a wave of pleasant euphoria bristles beneath his skin. “Seriously, Blaise, what the hell did you give me this time?”

He wasn’t worried that Blaise would ever give him anything he couldn’t handle—he was a Potions Master now, and they’d been doing this for years. Ron’s tolerance wasn’t anything to laugh at, but this particular brand of concoction was really doing a number on him.

“It calms you down, picks you up. Leaves you ready to fuck. The usual.”

“Right, well one is enough, thanks. I’ll stick to regular pints from now.”

Blaise shrugs. “Suit yourself, gorgeous.” He signals the young waitress for another round and Ron leans back in his chair, feeling almost spent. He closes his eyes, but his brain immediately supplies a picture of Teddy on his bed in much less than that grey jumper he’d been wearing when he’d called. Ron wonders what else besides the mind-blowingly sexy barbells in his nipples that fabric had been hiding. He knows Teddy has tattoos beneath his clothes. There’re endless pictures of him in  _Witch Weekly_  looking appropriately sultry, showing them off. There’s the wands and roses on his forearms, and the werewolf on his chest. He wonders what else is hidden. What are the other secrets of Teddy’s body.  How those secrets will feel against his tongue.

He opens his eyes to find Blaise staring at him, with an intense and strangely curious expression which clears not a second after Ron notices it.

“What?”

Blaise clears his throat and shakes his head quickly. “Nothing.”

The waitress delivers their beers, and Ron takes a long drink before checking his watch. “We’d better be going soon,” he says, and Blaise grins. “Unless you want to miss the show.”

 

 ~

 

With not much more than a charming smile from Blaise, a helpless look from Ron, and a brief explanation of who he is, the stern-looking wizard manning the long queue at the door calls Jack to the front to handle their cockup.

 When Jack spots Ron, his handsome face cracks into a smile and he pulls them into the doorway away from the rest of the throng hoping to see Edward Lycan in the flesh.

“Ron, you made it!” Jack says, shaking his hand enthusiastically, then turning to lead them further down the dark hallway. “Edward will be pleased.”

Ron is a little unnerved by the posters and security, the endless line of fans looking eager enough to burst. He shuffles along behind Jack as he takes a few steps into the narrow hallway leading to the ticket collection area and huddles off to the side as to not block the excited concert goers any further. As they come to a stop, Blaise approaches Jack with an extended hand.

“You’re Jack McAnderson. I’ve heard a lot about you,” Blaise says in the voice he usually reserves for the people he’s about to seduce. “I’m Blaise Zabini.”

Ron rolls his eyes, and steps around them. “Jack. Sorry to do this. But do you think Blaise can stay for the show?”

Jack looks between them, seeming a little bemused and a little bit flustered, since Blaise hasn’t yet let go of his hand. His cheeks turn a little bit pink as he nods at Blaise. “Good to meet you.”

A slow, predatory smile alights Blaise’s face, and Ron swats his arm.

After a moment, Jack seems to rouse himself, steps away from Blaise, smooths out his sharp-looking Muggle suit and nods a bit frantically. “Of course, Mr. Zabini can come in. Here, let me walk you to the booth. It’s VIP, just off the stage. Best seats in the pub.”

On the trek inside, past the ticket collectors and the long queue before them, Blaise doesn’t even try to hide his blatant ogling of Jack’s body, particularly Jack’s pert arse, and Ron thumps him on the back of his head. “Stop it.”

But Blaise only shoots him a devilish grin. “Jealous?”

Ron gives him a look, confused as to why Blaise has chosen tonight to revert to the old stereotype, knowing that Ron will see through it as he always has. When they get to the inner doors of the pub, Ron’s chest fills suddenly with a strange type of second-hand anxiety for the magnitude of what Teddy must go through every performance.

The inside of the Hog’s Head is already packed, and it’s been magically enlarged to triple its size, with two floors of standing space among cosy booths and nooks, strewn with pillows and comfortable lounging areas lit by warm Witch light. Several eager wizarding fans are being led to their assigned areas, murmuring with excitement, and trays with Butterbeers and Firewhisky and other ales are whizzing about and depositing themselves at tables full of hyper fans.

There are so many people. More than he’s ever seen at the Hog’s Head in his entire life, even after it had been refurbished, after the war. Some were speaking in German and French, while others spoke with heavily-accented English that reminds Ron of Viktor Krum.

Jack leads them to a large and comfortable booth just off the left side of the stage, and Ron shakes his head at the well-stocked table of drinks, and a menu of finger foods to order.

“Oh, Jack, mate,” Ron says, embarrassed. “This is a lot.”

 Blaise enters the booth, unashamedly plopping himself on the cosy seat and spreading his arms, crossing one leg over the other. “This is cushy,” he says, waggling a dark brow, and shooting Jack a lascivious look.

 Jack looks at him as if he doesn’t quite know how to respond, and Ron pats his shoulder. “Thanks so much for this, I—It’s brilliant.”

“Edward insisted,” Jack says with a shrug. “And he always gets what he wants.”

Ron chooses to ignore the little shiver that runs down his spine at Jacks words, and when he leaves them with a promise that someone would be by soon to take their food order, Ron collapses in the seat beside Blaise, who puts an arm around him and pats his shoulder.

“Why are you wound up so tight?” he asks, reaching forward with his other hand and patting Ron on the chest.

“I’m not. Why are you being an outrageous flirt with Jack? We both know that’s not you.”

Blaise looks away and hastily disengages from Ron, then reaches for a pint in the magically-cooled beer pail on the table.

“Sometimes I hate you know me so well,” he says with uncharacteristic frankness as he removes the cap and takes a sip of his pint.

“Blame Hermione.”

Blaise smiles briefly, wistfully, but doesn’t respond to this. Instead he says, “So, it’s Jack, then?”

When Ron looks up at him in surprise, Blaise refuses to meet Ron’s gaze. Ron shakes his head. “‘It’s Jack,’ what?”

“Jack’s the reason we’re not doing the usual?”

“What? No!” Ron rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands, not at all feeling sober enough to deal with this conversation. Blaise’s concoctions always seem to work in waves, offering periods of pleasant aloofness and brief bouts of pseudo-clarity, before another wave of delicious euphoria. “Blaise, there’s no  _reason_. I just don’t think we should.”

Blaise shakes his head. “Now who’s not acting like himself? Since when do you lie to me?” He swallows almost half his pint in one go, and Ron takes the drink away, choosing to ignore the accusation instead of owning up to it.

“Seriously, Blaise. What is it? Why are you so upset?”

Blaise looks at him for a long moment, and then takes his drink back with a scowl. “I’m not upset. It’s nothing. There’s no reason we shouldn’t shag tonight, and there’s nothing wrong with me. Right?”

They’re caught in an intense staring match, but then the lights suddenly dim, and all the audience chatter dies at once. 

Edward Lycan, whose hair is now a dark purple at the roots that lighten into teal, walks casually onto the stage. Instantly, Ron is mesmerised. Edward’s jeans, acid washed with several rips and holes in them, fit snugly on his solid, lean thighs, and match the curve of his arse so perfectly, Ron is convinced there must be magic involved. Still, all of this comes second to the fact that Edward—that Teddy—is wearing one of Ron’s t-shirts. He’d recognise it anywhere, especially since he’s been looking for it for years, failing to understand how one of his favourites could suddenly disappear. He was convinced that Hermione had stolen it years ago. It’s a faded black T-shirt he bought at a fund-raising event she had organised for Charlie’s dragon preserve. On the front, a particularly violent-looking Peruvian Vipertooth spreads its wings in mid-flight. It’s threadbare and thin, and all Ron can see are the nipple rings in Teddy’s chest printing against the fabric. Ron’s mouth goes dry with want, his cock instantly hardens in his jeans, and he begins a mantra in his head.

_He’s 21. He’s Harry’s Godson. Don’t do it. You’ll fuck it up._

He’d first noticed it missing when he’d crashed at Andromeda’s for a few days…when was that? Five years ago? But that Teddy had stolen it, and held on to it all this time. He’d kept it. Had  _kept_  it. Had chosen to wear it tonight. On the night he’d asked Ron to come.

Ron closes his eyes briefly.  _Don’t do it. You’ll fuck it up._

When he opens them again, he looks at Blaise, who hands him a pint and says nothing at all. But that was the way it had become between them; words were not needed, and still Ron knows that Blaise knows, and Ron looks away and takes a sip of his pint, knowing it’s as much admission as Blaise needs.

Teddy smiles at the crowd as he picks up his guitar. “Goodnight, everyone,” he says. His husky tenor magically echoes through the pub, and it’s as if Teddy is sitting right beside him.

“How’re we doin’?” Teddy grins as his fans make the Hog’s Head vibrate with the force of their screams and energy. He slings his guitar strap over his chest. “Thank you everyone for coming out. I’m Edward.” He has to pause as his fans drown him out. He fingers a few chords on is guitar, and then dazzles them with another smile. “Let’s get straight to it, shall we?”

With two bobs of his head, his band starts up behind him, and for the next hour and a half, Ron is lost. Teddy commands the room and Ron’s heart with just a toss of his head and the strum of a chord. He levitates—there are fireworks, flames, a convenient wind that ruffles the edges of his tee and makes his hair blow in just the right direction, and everything, every part of it, is hypnotising.

When it’s over, Ron looks to Blaise again, about to say something—what, he doesn’t know—but Blaise only shakes his head, then pats Ron’s shoulder and says, “Go.”

 *

After filing out with all the patrons and waiting for Jack to give him a backstage pass, Ron heads back inside the pub and waits a bit for the band and crew to share their post-show notes, as Ron had learned was their routine. Then he walks to the backstage area, certain he’ll be turned away at any moment, but each securiwizard he passes greets him with a nod and a quiet  _Mr. Weasley_ , and Ron isn’t sure if it’s the Harry Potter fame-by-association that makes him recognisable, or if Teddy has told them to let him through.

The upper levels of the inn have also been enlarged to serve as Teddy’s and his crew’s dressing rooms, and Ron passes a few doors with the names of his bandmates: Varlan, Lee, Astrid, Finch, and Flora. Then he sees Jack standing in a corner, talking on his mobile. He absently waves Ron on, and then points to the dressing room at the very end of the dark corridor. Ron give him a thumbs-up and then proceeds, somewhat haltingly, to Teddy’s dressing room.

When he knocks, Teddy answers almost instantly, dressed in a long-sleeved, Hufflepuff t-shirt that looks comfy as hell, and another pair of jeans, this time without holes, that still seem magically designed to hug his hips as tightly as possible. His eyes are bright, his cheeks red, and he looks freshly showered and calm.

His face splits into the sweetest smile, and right then, Ron questions the use of fighting things any longer, because he knows he is already lost.

“You’re here.”

Ron leans against the doorframe with a sigh. “I’m here.”

Teddy stares at him for a few moments, then opens his door wider, and lets Ron slip inside.

Ron walks around the large room, taking it all in. Teddy’s energy is everywhere. The room resembles one you might find at Hogwarts. There’s an oversized sofa buried beneath several pillows, and a throw that looks like it was made by his mum. An antique-looking coffee table sits just in front of it, littered with water bottles, a silver flask of Firewhisky, and several empty glasses. To the right, a doorway leads to a small bathroom, and the rest of the room is dominated by a large mirror with light bulbs around it. In front of that is a vanity table covered in all manner of things Edward Lycan—sheet music and scraps of paper with song lyrics scribbled in Teddy’s hand, a mobile and a tablet. Two guitars are propped up in the corner, next to a pair of tall, lethal-looking Dragonhide boots, and, endearingly enough, a pair of old trainers.

Teddy observes him and leans against his vanity, his long, teal-coloured hair brushing his shoulders.

Ron steps closer to him, and he loves the way Teddy hitches a breath, as if afraid and wanting at the same time.

“You,” Ron says, slightly embarrassed to hear the hoarse quality of his voice. “Let me see you. Just you.”

Instantly, everything about Edward Lycan fades, and there’s only Teddy. Inky black hair and grey eyes, pale skin and plump lips with their mischievous curve. Broad shoulders that narrow down into a lean waist, solid thighs neither bulky nor thin. He leans back against the vanity, forearms flexing beneath the thin sleeves of his tee, exposing a sliver of flesh above his low-slung jeans. A trail of downy-soft hair several shades lighter than the hair on his head disappears beneath his waistband. Ron is staring—he knows he is—and he can’t help himself.

Teddy’s face is flaming red, and Ron smiles at him. “I like you best as you are,” he says quietly. “Just Teddy.”

Teddy lets out a shuddering breath, “Merlin, Ron.”

“But I think I like you better in my shirt.”

Teddy’s eyes widen briefly, and then he smiles. “You recognised it.”

“Of course I did. When did you nick it?”

“You were sleeping on Gran’s couch. She’d done your laundry for you, you lazy sod.”

Ron laughs. “Shut it. I was a troubled youth.”

“You were over thirty even then, mate.” Teddy pushes himself off the vanity and goes to grab Ron’s t-shirt from where it’s strewn over a strange-looking, folded-up canvas chair.

He tosses it at Ron, who, for some reason, decides to smell it. “A bit sweaty, isn’t it?”

“I performed in it all night!”

Ron waves a cleansing charm over it and tosses it back. “Put it on.” Without intending to, his voice becomes a low command, and Teddy instantly obliges. It does wonders to Ron’s cock.

Teddy strips off his shirt, and  _oh_. Everything Ron had wondered about is finally on display—the nipple rings, with their silver balls glinting in the Witch light, the tattoos—a wand embedded beneath swirling, bright pink roses on his left forearm; the guitar and sword on his right; the snarling wolf on Teddy’s chest; the stag and the Dragon on the curve of his hip—the lean, pale torso and lightly defined abs, the unsubtle jut of his hip bones, both strong and delicate—all of it, every part of Teddy is devastating in its beauty. Ron’s fingers twitch with the need to touch him, and he’s proud of himself for resisting as Teddy’s skin once again disappears beneath his shirt.

“Now it smells like you again.” Teddy leans casually against the vanity and simply looks at him. “You’re on something, aren’t you?”

Ron nods and steps closer, not quite into Teddy’s space, but close enough to smell him. His scent is fresh and soft, masculine and vulnerable all at once. “Something of Blaise’s.”

Teddy raises his eyebrows; his body language subtly changes into something more defensive, and Ron wishes he wouldn’t. “Blaise?” he asks, the tone of his voice betraying him. “You’re here with him?”

Ron shakes his head, needing to make this clear. “I’m not  _with_  him. We were just here together.”

Teddy eyes him for a long moment. “You both should come to the club with us, then.”

“He’s gone home.”

“Why?”

“He had an early morning.”

Teddy smiles briefly, reaches out and toys with the hem of Ron’s shirt, and Ron’s breaths become dangerously uneven. “You’re about to have a very late night.”

“Am I?”

Teddy steps forward, invading Ron’s space. “Lose the jacket.” Teddy doesn’t give Ron a chance to respond, he slips his fingers beneath the collar of Ron’s jacket and pushes the sleeves off Ron’s shoulders. Ron lets it fall to the floor as Teddy trails his fingertips down Ron’s shoulders, leaving the ghost of his touch and heated skin in its wake. He lets his fingers graze along Ron’s biceps and stops at the elbow where, one by one, he pushes up the sleeves of Ron’s shirt, revealing his scarred forearms. Ron shivers beneath those graceful hands and gooseflesh blooms along his skin.

“Why hide them?” Teddy murmurs, tracing the scars with his fingertips. “You hide so much. All the time.”

There’s a sharp knock at the door, and they jump apart like a shot. Teddy groans in frustration. “That’ll be Jack. He has something awful to tell me, I know it.”

“Oh.” Ron says stupidly, attempting to get his brain working again; trying and failing to focus on what they’d been talking about.

“I don’t have Apparition coordinates,” Teddy murmurs. “But I can show you.”

“Show me?”

“Yeah,” Teddy reaches out and gently sweeps a few stray strands off Ron’s brow. “In here.”

Ron can barely breathe, his heart is a trip hammer in his chest, but he wants to do this—wants more than anything to let Teddy inside. “All right.”

Teddy cups Ron’s face in his palms and Ron closes his eyes, letting his Occlumency drop. He’s done this only once before, with Harry, but Teddy feels completely different, yet oddly the same. Teddy is gentle and familiar, his reach unprobing as he opens his mind. Ron catches a glimpse of Teddy as Edward, smiling and laughing with his bandmates in a small and classy nightclub in London with the name  _“Ambient”_  floating above their heads in faded blue lights.

Ron opens his eyes the same time Teddy does, and they both smile stupidly at each other. “You’re good at that.”

“I was taught well,” Teddy says with a mischievous grin. “Harry Potter  _is_  my godfather.”

Ron groans. “Please.  _Please_ don’t remind me.”

Teddy’s delighted laugh is cut off by Jack’s knock at the door again, and he scowls. “He’s doing that on purpose. He’s worried about me and you being in here together. Alone.” He waves his wand at the direction of the door, and Ron catches a quick glimpse of Teddy’s Patronus—a wolf that looks just like Remus Lupin’s—before it disappears.

“He sounds like Harry,” Ron says. “I got an earful this morning.”

“Is that why you won’t—”

 Ron silences Teddy with a finger to his lips and shakes his head. The last thing he wants to get into is a guilt trip. “Harry Potter doesn't control anything I do," he says. "He never has." Ron drops his hand and takes a few steps backward. "Don't worry about it, Ted. Go talk to Jack. I’ll see you later.”

Teddy only nods and watches Ron as he retreats to the door. “Ron, wait. Your jacket.” Teddy picks it up from the floor, but Ron waves him off.

“Keep it,” he says with a smile. “I like you in my clothes.”

 


	3. PART III: Teddy

**PART III**

**Teddy**

 

When Teddy first seriously thought about giving up music—when he was sixteen and frustrated with only a borrowed guitar, and there was no Jack to guide him to the right gigs, none of his bandmates even knew he existed, and no one seemed to want to listen to what  _he_  wanted, it was Ron who had changed his mind.  After he’d broken his Gran’s heart by dropping out of Hogwarts before his OWLS, Teddy returned home after another failed gig to find Ron asleep on his Gran’s couch, and was so nonplussed that he simply stood on the Floo grate, watching Ron’s sleeping form, and quietly acknowledged that yes, Ron Weasley—who’d been a part of his life ever since he could remember—was possibly the most gorgeous bloke he’d ever seen, and that _yes_ , he was hopelessly in love. Then he’d trudged up to his room and lain awake for the entire night.

As they spoke over a Butterbeer the next day at his Gran’s dining table (no doubt, she had asked Ron to talk some sense into Teddy) he had haltingly and awkwardly told Ron about his artistic troubles, sure that Ron would encourage him to give up and go back to school, just like everyone else in his life did.

But Ron didn’t.

He’d only told Teddy, as seriously as Teddy had ever heard Ron speak, never to give up on what he wanted just because others didn’t see the value in it. So Teddy had held on, and now here he is, on a dancefloor, in London, being kept separate from his fans by two beefy securiwizards, his gaze intent on the man across the room, who only just appeared, walking towards Teddy completely unaware of himself and his effect on the people around him.

Teddy decides to meet him halfway, giving his security a wave before he steps onto the dancefloor where he and Ron wordlessly walk to each other as if drawn together by an invisible string. As they meet in the middle, Ron smiles at him, revealing that hidden dimple, making his eyes crinkle, and Teddy decides that even if he never gets exactly what he wants from Ron—his heart, his everything—that this moment could suffice. This moment will carry him aloft for a very long time.

Ron slides his arms around Teddy’s waist without a word, and they begin to dance as one of Teddy’s songs—a pulsing, upbeat tune with Teddy’s vocals laid like a cherry on top—begins to play. Everyone on the dancefloor goes wild around them, and Ron’s smile is so genuine that it makes Teddy’s heart swell. A smoke machine blasts above their heads, and Ron pulls him even closer. Teddy’s heart goes into overdrive, wishing that finally, Ron would kiss him right here, under the opaque cover, the flashing lights and the streams of silver confetti raining down on them. But he doesn’t.

Teddy tries not to feel that too deeply, tries to lose himself in the music, but he’s exhausted, not just by his unreturned want, but by the show and all that has happened since. Ron seems to sense this, and, after a minute or two of more dancing, takes Teddy’s hand and leads them past the securiwizards to one of their private booths. It’s bleary and smoky, but also empty and intimate, and he revels in Ron’s heat beside him. The tune changes to a gentler beat as the DJ winds down the set.

“You’re tired,” Ron remarks.

Teddy shrugs and puts his feet up on the velvet ottoman in front of them, takes out one of Varlan’s blunts, and waves it pointedly under Ron’s nose. His mouth twitches and he holds Teddy’s hands steady, wandlessly lighting the blunt with a pinch of his fingertips.

“That was ridiculously sexy.” Teddy takes a drag and breathes a puff of smoke into Ron’s face.

Ron takes the blunt from him with a wicked smile. “Thanks.”

“I was wrong,” Teddy says, watching as Ron takes a few hits, closing his eyes briefly, and then exhaling upward, exposing his Adam’s apple and entirely too much skin at the V of his shirt. “I always thought you were unaware of how sexy you are, but you know it entirely, don’t you, you bastard?”

Ron chokes out a laugh and grins, then hands back the blunt. “What makes you say that?”

“You’ve unbuttoned your shirt even more,” Teddy says gesturing at the deep V above Ron’s waistcoat, earning himself another wicked gleam in Ron’s bright blue eyes. Teddy takes a drag, and his head spins. “You’ll be the death of me, Weasley.”

Ron shakes his head, eyes Teddy carefully. “I think it’s the other way around.”

“I’ll be the death of you?”

“I think so.”

Teddy smiles, liking this admission. “You should know Jack doesn’t like it when I spend nights away from the flat. Means he can’t find me.”

Ron raises his eyebrows. “What makes you think you’re not going back to your flat?”

“Am I?” Teddy leans back languidly and runs his boot along the length of Ron’s thigh, taking another drag and looking up at him with half-lidded eyes. 

Ron closes his eyes briefly. “Merlin, you’re trouble…”

Teddy tries to keep up the whole sexy look, but he can feel his eyelids drooping and Ron reaches over him and plucks the blunt out of his fingertips, steals a few quick drags, then stubs it out.

“That’s it,” he says, looking determined. “Come on. I’m taking you home.”

“I’m good,” Teddy says languidly, not moving from his perch. “I’d rather go to yours.”

Ron hesitates. He looks around in the dark, “Are there cameras in here?”

Teddy perks up, resting on his elbows. “Why, you want to do something?”

Ron laughs, and shakes his head. “Bloody hell,” he says incredulously. “Can you Apparate?”

“Yeah,” Teddy says, sitting up hastily.

 Ron seems to rouse himself to a decision. “Take us to yours.”

 “Ok.” Teddy doesn’t give him quarter to change his mind, standing quickly and feeling for his wand, but when Ron pulls him in close, Teddy closes his eyes, breathing in his scent, drifting in his high, wanting more than anything to taste the skin beneath Ron’s neck, just _there_ , at the sensitive pulse point.

“Teddy?” Ron says, his voice light. “Any minute now would be great.”

Teddy flushes, visualises his flat, and together, they Disapparate.

The flat, or penthouse, rather, was Teddy’s first major purchase after his second album did so much better than anyone had hoped for. The only must-haves he gave to his realtor were: London, natural light, and lots of space. She’d found him a Muggle integrated house in Primrose Hill on the Floo network, and there was natural light everywhere, due to the oversized windows that bordered almost every wall. They gave a view of the quaint little park beneath and the bustling city beyond, close enough so that he can feel its pulse, but far enough to not be overwhelming.

As they step away from each other, Teddy is still reeling from both the Apparition and the fact that for the first time, Ron is in his  _home, his space._ He takes a moment to breathe as he observes Ron taking in the penthouse view with a gobsmacked expression. “Bloody hell, Teddy, this is amazing.”

“Thanks.” Teddy stands awkwardly still, painfully aware that he’s as hard as he’s ever been in his life, and that seeing Ron in his space has made him more possessive, and more embarrassingly  _needy_  than he ever wants to be _._ He’s also slightly embarrassed by the mess upon his piano in the corner of the living room, feeling as though it reveals too much about his process, the secrets behind what makes Edward Lycan tick. The piano and bench are covered in endless pages of lyrics, scrap paper wrapped into frustrated-looking balls, another blanket from Mrs. Weasley, and a mug and teapot that’s probably still full of this morning’s stale tea.

The moonlight’s greyish hues play about Ron’s pale skin, making him seem almost statuesque as he walks to the piano and begins to touch Teddy’s things. Anyone else, and Teddy would have stopped them, but Ron… well, he’s always had to be different. With a wave of Teddy’s wand, the soft lights about the countertop separating the kitchen from the living room light up, and Ron turns to him, eyes wide. Whatever’s on Teddy’s face seems to calm him though, and he pushes his hands into his pockets.  “Teddy, honestly, you look exhausted, mate.”

Teddy’s face heats, as he belatedly realises that he’d let all the remnants of Edward Lycan drop as he entered his flat, as was his habit. He must look awful, dark circles beneath tired eyes, and there was the spot on the centre of his forehead he saw in the mirror this morning—Ron crosses the room and slips an arm around Teddy’s waist, pulling him close and shaking his head, as if he can read Teddy’s mind. “Still gorgeous, mind,” Ron says, tucking a stray strand of Teddy’s hair behind his ear. “Only tired.”

Teddy’s heart rate spikes as adrenaline wakes him up all over again, but his head is still mellow from the blunt, and the mix of sensations are driving him crazy. “Ron, if you don’t kiss me now, I swear—”

Ron pushes himself firmly into Teddy’s space, presses his lips against Teddy’s and kisses him so soundly that it’s as if after a lifetime of shallow breaths, he’s finally been allowed to properly inhale. His lips are gentle and soft and Teddy instantly melts in his arms, relying on Ron to hold him up—to be there when Teddy loses his strength, because he knows he will. All at once, everything comes to life and comes to a close, and a sense of _unreality_ settles in his mind because he can’t quite believe it’s  _Ron_  against him. He can't believe it's Ron who tastes of Firewhisky, and ginger, and mallowsweet and sex. Teddy wants to possess him and _be_  possessed at the same time.

He wraps his arms around Ron’s shoulders and eagerly kisses him back, opening his mouth and sighing as Ron’s deft tongue sweeps in, exploring him gently but surely, as if he’s kissed Teddy many times before, but is still making a learned study of Teddy’s mouth. Every part of him is being slowly unlocked and opened and set free by the touch of Ron’s tongue. Teddy wants to wrap his legs around Ron’s waist, but he doesn’t think he even has the strength to launch himself into Ron’s arms, because Ron has firmly taken his breath away.

They part slowly, as if by some unspoken agreement, and Ron cups his jaw, resting his forehead against Teddy’s and closing his eyes. They stand there, in the middle of Teddy’s living room for a while, simply holding on to each other like lifelines. Teddy drops his hands to Ron’s waist and pushes his fingertips beneath Ron’s shirt, his heart soaring when he encounters warm, tender flesh.

“Bedroom?” Ron whispers.

“Sofa’s closer.”

“We need a bed for what I want to do to you.” Ron pulls away and takes Teddy’s hand. There’s a wicked gleam in his eye, and Teddy stares at him, struck still until Ron yanks his arm unsubtly. Teddy leads him down the short hallway to the bedroom and nudges open the door, startled when Ron spins him around and pushes him up against the wall so hard, it gives him a jolt.

He gasps just as Ron covers his mouth with his lips, and Teddy instantly opens up, letting Ron explore him, letting Ron set the pace, completely certain there’s nothing he could deny Ron, no matter what he asks.  He shudders, understanding now more than ever, the power Ron has over him.

Ron pushes his hands beneath Teddy’s t-shirt, rucking it up to Teddy’s neck, then ducks his head and swipes his tongue across Teddy’s left nipple. Teddy cries out, dragging his fingers through Ron’s thick hair and clutching a shock of the strands in one tight fist as Ron mercilessly toys with the barbell in his nipple. Teddy’s thighs begin to shudder—he’s always been sensitive as hell, but Ron’s skilful tongue might just be the thing that ends him.

“Bed, Ron. Now.”

Ron picks him up bodily and Teddy wraps his thighs around Ron’s waist, taking the time to devour Ron’s mouth in the short steps towards the massive four poster. Ron palms Teddy’s arse, slipping his hands into Teddy’s underwear and squeezing each arsecheek possessively, digging his fingers hard enough to leave bruises. When they reach the bed, Ron dumps him there, knocking the wind out of Teddy’s lungs, and hovers over him like a powerful animal just barely holding himself back from feasting on Teddy’s body. Ron’s pupils are dilated to where there’s hardly any blue to be seen, and Teddy’s breaths grow so shallow with want that he’s almost dizzy.

“If you want this to stop, you’ll have to say so now,” Ron says in a deep, gravelly voice Teddy barely recognises.

“Never,” Teddy says breathlessly. He sits up enough that Ron has to retreat a little, and he bites gently on Ron’s lower lip. “Never stop. I don’t want you to stop.”

“Fuck. You drive me crazy”

Teddy brushes Ron’s face with his palm and smiles. “You too, Red.”

Ron pulls away and unbuttons his shirt and vest hastily. Teddy takes the hint, pulling off his t-shirt, toeing off his boots and wiggling out of his jeans as Ron does the same. By the time they’re both naked, they’re both breathless, and Teddy sits at the edge of the bed, mesmerised by Ron’s body—the defined cuts of muscle and the kind of six pack Teddy could work out for _years_  and never obtain. Ron’s skin, lit by Witch light, glows golden, and his strangely elegant collarbones are prominent beneath the freckled-splashed skin of his chest. Teddy wants to trace the cut of Ron’s hip bones with his tongue, taste the thin trail of coppery hair that leads to his cock, thick and hard and jutting proudly away from his body. Teddy’s no size queen, but he’s certain getting dicked out by Ron Weasley is going to be something he’ll always remember in more ways than one. 

Ron observes Teddy’s contemplation with a soft smile on his lips, still hovering over Teddy like some sort of perfectly carved sculpture.

“How could she have ever let you go?” The words are out of his mouth before Teddy can stop them, and Ron pauses the languid stroking of his cock as his smile falters.

“She didn’t,” he says. “She didn’t let me go. I left her.”

“What happened?”

Ron shakes his head “Not now,” he says, that wicked smile slowly relighting his face. “Let’s talk about that later. Now, I want to see you on your knees, ready to take my cock. You think you can do that?”

Teddy scrambles off the bed and complies, kneeling before Ron and taking his impressive length into his hand before slowly lowering his mouth to the head and tasting him.

He groans deeply and Ron sighs, sliding his fingers into Teddy’s hair. The scent of Ron is so raw and heady that Teddy has to close his eyes to calm himself as his own dick twitches and a dribble of precome slides along his shaft. He teases the head of Ron’s cock with his tongue and Ron’s stomach goes taut, amplifying the cut of his muscles and the sheen of sweat illuminating his gorgeous skin. He looks down at Teddy, those lush lips swollen, eyes heavy-lidded and says, “Suck it.”

Teddy wraps one hand around the base of Ron’s cock, loving the way he shivers from that touch alone, and slowly takes as much of Ron’s length as he can into his mouth. Ron’s fingernails scratch convulsively at Teddy’s scalp as he bobs his head and hollows his cheeks, each time trying to get more of Ron’s dick down his throat. Ron groans deeply and throws his head back, his Adam’s apple working, skin glinting in the warm light. His thighs begin to quiver and Teddy backs off a bit, working the head of Ron’s cock, teasing him until he gasps and finally looks down at Teddy. Ron smiles wickedly, then threads his fingers in Teddy’s hair, holding his head in place while he slowly fucks his mouth. Teddy lets his jaws go slack, opens up as much as he can, and lets Ron use him, lets Ron catch on to a steady pace until the pace becomes brutal as he fucks Teddy’s mouth until he gags, then he lets up and starts again, abusing Teddy’s throat with his cock until Teddy grabs hold of Ron’s thighs and digs his fingers in. Ron slows, then pulls out completely with a loud groan.

“You need a break?”

Teddy shakes his head, knowing that his voice is too ruined to speak. Jack is going to kill him in the morning.

“You sure?”

Teddy smiles and takes Ron’s dick in hand again, rubbing the head against his lips, slicking it with precome.

“Holy shit,” Ron says, pushing his hips forward so that his dick slides inside Teddy’s mouth, building up a rapid pace until his thighs begin to shudder.

“Oh fuck, Teddy, you’re so good. Just like that.  _Oh god_.”

Teddy takes as much of Ron’s dick down his throat as he can, and Ron grabs a fistful of Teddy’s hair for his trouble. The pain-pleasure of it makes Teddy’s dick twitch and leak globs of precome onto the parquet floors.

“Ted, I’m gonna…”

Teddy renews his pace with vigour and groans as he feels the first spurts of Ron’s come squelch against his tongue, filling his mouth. He swallows frantically, trying to make sure he gets it all because this has always been his _thing—_ he’s always loved the taste, always relished the feel of it sliding down his throat—and now, because it’s Ron, that makes it all the better, and he doesn’t want to waste a single drop.

When Ron is finally spent, Teddy lets him slip out of his mouth with a pop, noting with some fascination, that Ron is still hard. He looks down at Teddy with bright eyes, helps him up, then pulls him in close for a kiss, exploring his mouth as his hands expertly roam the slick planes of Teddy’s body. Ron fingers the curve of Teddy’s arse and probes between his arsecheeks with his index. Teddy shudders as Ron’s fingertip grazes his hole, and his dick streams precome all over Ron’s stomach.

“You’re so wet, Ted. Merlin.” He picks Teddy up again and deposits him on the bed. Teddy scrambles backwards, and Ron follows until he’s straddling Teddy’s hips, taking Teddy’s hard dick in hand, stroking him slowly.

“What do you want? Do you want me to jerk you off? Or do you need me to fuck you?”

“ _Fuck me._ ” Ron thumbs the head of Teddy’s cock and his hips jerk upwards, pushing his dick further into Ron’s grasp. “Oh, please...fuck, Ron. I’ve wanted. So long. I need you inside me now.”

“Lube?”

Teddy wandlessly Summons it without thinking, and it lands with a thump next to Ron’s thigh. Ron uncaps the bottle and covers his dick with a few drops, then languidly strokes his dick as he allows a huge dollop to fall between Teddy’s legs. The sensation of it slowly sliding its way towards Teddy’s hole sends his oversensitive body into overdrive.

Ron lays beside him, sliding one thigh beneath Teddy’s leg, lifting it off the bed, then holds Teddy open with his hand and leans in to nip his lower lip with his teeth as he works Teddy’s arse open with his fingers.

“This mouth of yours. Fuck. Seeing it wrapped around my dick. I’m going to wank to that for months, you know that?” He spreads some lube on Teddy’s cock and gives him a few slick strokes. “You’re perfect.”

“Ron.” Teddy arches his hips and groans as Ron slips two fingers inside him, fucking him as if he knows Teddy’s body by heart.

“Stay just like that, T. You’re going to feel so tight around my dick, aren’t you? Your arse was made for me wasn’t it?”

“Yes.  _Yes._  Oh, fuck yes, Ron. Don’t stop.”

Ron slips another finger inside his arse, and Teddy arches up off the bed as Ron’s knuckle brushes his prostate. Teddy’s shudder is so bone-deep, it almost feels like he’s coming, but he isn’t just yet, it just  _feels_  like he is, and he always knew this is how it would be. He always knew it would feel almost too good, and almost too horrible, because, god, what would life be like after this, without this, without Ron’s hands on him, without Ron inside him? He doesn’t want to know. He never wants to know again.

“Fuck me. Fuck me.” Teddy’s voice is high-pitched and breathless, and he doesn’t even know what he’s saying, only that he needs Ron inside him properly. “Now, Ron. I need you now.”

Ron grazes a teasing knuckle against Teddy’s prostate again before swinging his leg across Teddy’s body and settling down between his thighs.  Teddy shoves a pillow beneath his arse, spreads his legs, and Ron looks down at him, seemingly mesmerised, his breaths shallow, face flushed. He nudges Teddy’s entrance with his thick cock and…fucking hell. Ron’s dick was made to own him, to make every inch of Teddy remember who he belongs to.

Ron eases in with a few shallow thrusts, and Teddy groans so loudly he almost startles himself. He’s always been a loud fuck in bed, and he hopes Ron is prepared, because there’s no way that’s going to change with  _that_  monster cock drilling into him... _oh god_. The head slips in and they both groan, as Ron starts dicking him out with shallow thrusts so Teddy’s body can get used to him.

He closes his eyes, willing his body to obey, to loosen up, and Ron leans down and kisses him softly, his damp hair brushing Teddy’s forehead. “You’ve gotta relax if you want me to fuck you, T.”

Ron licks a cool swath along Teddy’s sensitive throat and Teddy shudders and lets his head fall back, giving Ron all the access he needs. “I’m trying,” he says breathily, moaning as Ron slips the head in again, slowly filling him with the restraint of someone who knows exactly what his dick can do.

“Need me to loosen you up a little more?”

Teddy doesn’t even have a chance to answer before Ron has his knees up to his ears and his mouth is on Teddy’s hole, his slick tongue teasing Teddy open more, and he practically screams. “Oh god. Oh Merlin. Oh Jesus. Oh fuck. Ron!”

He clutches onto Ron’s taut biceps, trying to find some tether back to reality, but Ron keeps tonguing him mercilessly until Teddy’s thighs are a quivering mess and he can’t quite think, except to beg. “Ron, ok, you can fuck me now! Please.”

Ron pulls away, his mouth and eyes wild, lines up his dick and slips deep inside Teddy’s body in one thrust. They both make the type of inhuman noises nobody ever talks about after sex, and Ron builds up a slow, tortuous rhythm, his palm snaking its way up Teddy’s chest, tracing the lines of the snarling wolf that lives there, and then, so deftly Teddy never even expects it, he wraps his fingers around Teddy’s throat and fucks him hard, his brutal thrusts rattling the bed posts.

Teddy transcends to some kind of mental place he’s never been before. He is floating, soaring until he feels Ron’s grasp at his throat loosen and disappear, and, after a few more brutal thrusts, Teddy is absolutely gone on Ron’s dick alone, shooting so hard his own come lands on his chin.

He cries out so plaintively that he knows he’ll look back on it with embarrassment, but Ron doesn’t seem to notice. He leans in, licks Teddy’s come off his chin and kisses him deeply—filthily—until his rhythm falters and he comes inside Teddy’s arse with a soft cry.

Teddy’s body is still shaking with aftershocks, even as Ron stills, slips out of him and collapses beside him. Before he can pass out, Teddy rolls across the bed, reaches for his discarded trousers and fetches his wand. He cleans them both up and then burrows into Ron’s side, draping a leg across him, pleased when Ron turns towards him and gently runs his fingers through Teddy’s hair.

“You okay?”

“Brilliant.”

“That was…intense. As these things go.”

Teddy looks up at Ron to see his cheeks are still flushed, and his eyes are a little dazed. “It was amazing.”

A strange silence stretches between them, then Ron says, “I should probably—”

“Don’t you dare. Stay the night. I have a band meeting before breakfast and you better be here when I get back, Ron, or I swear I will kill you.”

Ron lets out a huff of laughter and kisses the side of Teddy’s head. “Ok,” he murmurs. “Get some sleep, Ted.”

Almost instantly, Teddy does.

 

*

 

He awakes to Ron’s lube-slicked and skillful palm slowly stroking his cock. Teddy presses his back against Ron’s broad chest as Ron’s stubble brushes against Teddy’s back, and he releases a breathy moan without quite meaning to. Ron traces the shell of Teddy’s ear with his tongue and rumbles a groan into Teddy’s skin. “Can I—?”

Still half-asleep, Teddy nods, not even sure what he’s agreeing to, but knowing that he’ll give Ron anything he wants—especially with his voice in Teddy’s ear, desperate and husky and raw and aching.

Ron’s deftly snakes his palm between Teddy’s parted thighs, and his fingers gently probe Teddy’s still slightly sore hole, and Teddy gasps, sensitive as hell, but still desperate for Ron’s cock to fill him again. Behind him, the familiar click of the lube bottle echoes, and Ron slowly fingers him open. He slips his other arm beneath Teddy’s body and reaches for Teddy’s cock.

Teddy’s cock leaks streams of precome into Ron’s palm as Ron firmly jerks Teddy’s hard cock and finger fucks him at the same time.

“Ron.” Teddy moans huskily and arches his back. “Gonna come if you do that.”

Ron stills and then he urges Teddy flat into his stomach, climbing over him and straddling him. “Come on my cock.” He smacks Teddy’s arse hard, and Teddy cries out in surprise, bracing himself on the sheets and lifting his arse higher for more. Another drizzle of lube plops on his hole, and he can hear the squelching sound of Ron getting his dick slick behind him. Teddy can’t resist craning his neck to the side to watch, but he doesn’t get much time to admire the sexy tableau—Ron’s determined expression, his long hair caught on his stubble, and the way he’s trapped his lower lip between his teeth—because almost as soon as he turns his head, Ron lines up his cock and slides inside Teddy’s arse in one graceful movement.

Teddy almost screams. He clutches onto the sheets and holds on for dear life as Ron’s dick fills him up so good he can hardly breathe. There’s no doubt in his mind that he’s going to come untouched again, and it’s going to be quick.

“This arse is  _mine._ ” Ron digs his fingers into the pert globes and spreads Teddy’s cheeks wide, and Teddy lifts his hips and braces himself as Ron’s thrusts ascend to their rapid-fire peak.

“Yes. Yours. God, Ron, yes.” Teddy tries not to scream too loudly when Ron smacks his arse again, and his body begins to shudder as Ron’s dick keeps drilling into him, unrelenting, the head brushing Teddy’s prostate on each pass. Before he can even understand what’s happening, he comes, his dick spurting semen in a wide patch on his dark green sheets.

He’s so dazed and out of it, he doesn’t even notice when Ron comes inside him, or when he pulls out and collapses besides him, but he can feel Ron’s come seeping out of his thoroughly used hole, and he groans, immensely satisfied.

This time Ron cleans them both up, and when he returns to bed, Teddy flings one leg across him. “Morning.”

Ron laughs and kisses the tip of Teddy’s nose. “Morning. Sorry about that. I was awake, and you were breathing.” He smiles that smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I couldn’t resist you.”

Teddy’s whole face feels like it’s on fire, but he tries to play it cool. “Never apologise for that.” He lays his palm flat on Ron’s chest and seeks out a nipple, pleased when Ron gasps as he tweaks it. “What time is it?”

Ron casts a Tempus charm. “Almost nine. Shit.”

“WHAT?” Teddy launches himself out of bed and promptly trips on the sheets tangled at his feet, then has to push himself up off the floor again, naked and all.

“My meeting is at nine!”

Ron props himself up in bed, observing Teddy with a delicious grin that makes him want to dive back beneath the sheets and never return. “Better hurry then, Lycan. You’ve got about ten minutes.”

 _“Shit!_ ”

He dashes into the bathroom and gasps at the sight of himself in the mirror. There are bruises on his neck, his collarbone and hips, and a long scratch on his shoulder he has no memory of Ron putting there. He observes these with a sense of detached disbelief, grazing his fingers over them, flinching when the blunt pain lets him know that yes, all of this is real.

He hops into the shower and takes the time while lathering his skin to carefully alter himself into Edward Lycan and, regretfully, hide the bruises on his skin. He steps out of the shower and changes his hair to a light beach-blond for the day, and when he emerges from the bath, drying his hair with a towel, Ron is sprawled on the bed, bundled beneath the sheets, fast asleep.

Teddy ignores the happy/sad ache in his heart and refuses to allow himself to indulge in the hopes that this could be something he’ll witness more than once. He dresses quietly as to not wake Ron, checks his pockets for his wand, phone and keys, then heads for the Floo where, at the grate, he hesitates, walks back into the room and plants a kiss on Ron’s forehead. Ron stirs, but doesn’t wake, and Teddy looks down at him, memorising the moment for the nights to come.

*

                                                                   

Jack doesn’t look pleased when Teddy arrives a half-hour late with his sunglasses shielding his eyes from scrutiny and a large cup of coffee in his hands. All his bandmates are already in Jack’s loft-styled office; Flora and Finch sit beside each other on a small loveseat, and Astrid is perched on a brown leather recliner with one knee tucked beneath her chin. Only Varlan remains on his feet, his long, curly hair pulled up into a high bun, and a wary look on his face.

Jack arises from behind his desk, switches off his phone and slips it into his pocket as he walks around to the front to loom above them imperiously—but with his ash brown hair in a low ponytail and washed out Cranberries t-shirt over white jeans, he doesn’t look very intimidating at all. Teddy hides a smile behind his coffee.

“Okay everyone, first things first.” Jack sounds as tired as they all feel, and Teddy experiences a surge of pure gratefulness that everyone in this room is still willing to put in all the work it takes to keep Edward Lycan going. “I know we’ve been going hard these last few weeks now that the tour is coming to a close, and you’re wondering why you’re here today.” He shoves his hands into his pocket and nods at Teddy. “But, I know Edward would want you all here for this.”

Everyone’s eyes turn to him, and Teddy slouches down into his seat as he takes a sip of his coffee. He doesn’t even know  _why_  they’re here except perhaps to confront Varlan, as Jack has been urging him to do for the last few days.

As if reading his thoughts, Jack says, “Before we get to that, Varlan, are you signed with Sinclair? Do you plan on leaving the tour?”

Varlan doesn’t look surprised at the question, and Teddy’s heart begins the usual, anxious galloping whenever he thinks about Varlan leaving. Varlan folds his arms across his chest, and his gaze slides towards Teddy, then over to Astrid, where it lingers. “We’ve been talking about it, yeah.”

Jack crosses his feet at the ankles, looking calm. “Var, it’s all right if you have. We just need to know so Ted and I can look into replacing you.”

Varlan looks away from Astrid and addresses Teddy, his voice low. “Why didn’t you ask me about this if you were worried? I would have told you what was up.”

Teddy pulls off his sunglasses and rests his coffee down on the side table beside him. “I thought you’d wanted to do your own thing—”

“What  _the hell_  is going on with your voice?” Jack interrupts, slightly shrill.

Teddy’s face heats, but he ignores the question, and Jack scowls at him from his perch. “I didn’t want to get in the way of that.”

“We all knew Sinclair was nosing around, Var,” Astrid puts in quietly. “You never came to us about it, so we had to guess that maybe you were leaving.”

“Astrid…” His gaze lingers on her again, and she looks down into her lap. “I’m not signing on with Sinclair. He asked yeah, and we’ve been talking, but yesterday I told him no.” He seems to be speaking to Astrid alone, but she doesn’t look up at him when he finishes. He sighs and looks at Teddy. “I know you and I have good vibes. I like that, man. I don’t want to go solo. I see what you go through with all those people wanting a piece if you. It’s not for me. Not at all. Everyone thinks because I’m older than all you lot, I’m washed up and desperate for stardom.”

“No one thinks that, V!” Flora cries, her cheeks looking flushed with worry and her dark brown eyes looking pinched and sad. “We just know you  _could_  be solo, if you wanted.”

“Well, so do I, but it’s not what I want.” He and Astrid share a heated look across the room, and Teddy looks away, amazed that he’d never noticed before.

Jack claps his hands together and smiles, looking relieved. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to hear you say that.”

Varlan crosses the room and sits on the armrest of Teddy’s chair and tugs a strand of his hair. “How long have you been worrying about this?”

“Couple weeks.”

“Daft.”

 Jack waves his hands for their attention again. “Guys, I’m glad that’s settled, but we have another issues on the table. And I know it’s going to be a tough choice, but we have to consider it.”

“What are you talking about.” Ted frowns, worried because he’s never seen Jack look so anxious before.

“So, you all know about Mash Tour in the U.S. right?” Everyone nods, and Teddy, catching on, sits up straight in his seat. “Holy shit.”

“Wait. Just listen to the whole story first.  Ever since your show in the Hydro, you’ve been blowing up on Twitter and Tumblr, and a lot of queer blogs and groups in the U.S. are talking about you.”

 “Erm…”

“And Mash Tour has come under fire for basically ignoring the queer community, and they’re trying to make up for that by bringing on artists they think can count as queer rep.”

“But I’m not  _queer_  rep… I’m just…” He trails off, unsure how to finish, but Varlan rests his arm on Teddy’s shoulder and gives him a supportive squeeze.

“They want to use Ted as a token gay to push their agenda? With a last-minute invitation? Mash Fest is in  _two days._  They should have had more queer artists in the first place!”

“Trust me, they know that, Varlan.  _I_  know that. But I can’t deny that this is a huge opportunity for us. This show could push Ted, push  _all of you_ onto the map in a way you can’t even imagine. To not take this opportunity would be a mistake, and the payout is obscene.”

“But it’s like…capitalising on something that’s just… it’s just a thing  _I am_ , not...some kind of agenda.”

“Everything is an agenda in this business, Edward.” Finch puts in quietly from his corner. “If you don’t capitalise on what makes you different, you’re only shooting yourself in the foot.”

“But I’m not a sell-out,” Teddy says, frustrated. “I don’t want this opportunity just because I’m gay.”

“Don’t look at it that way.” Jack pushes himself off his chair and steps around his coffee table. He kneels in front of Teddy, eyes imploring. “Yeah, it’s fucked. And they  _should_ have had queer rep all along. But that doesn’t change the fact that you  _are_  queer, and that being there will make a difference for us. For the community. People  _want_  to see you there. This isn’t about Mash Tour or their stupid agenda. It’s about you. About the artist you are.”

Teddy takes a deep breath, still confused, but not wanting to lose on an opportunity that could change his life. “All right…”

Jack sits at the edge of the coffee table. “Doing this would mean we could extend the tour for a month and book a few wizarding shows after the festival. Your U.S. wizarding fans have been clamouring for some attention. You’re growing a reputation for being partial to the European community.”

Finch scoffs, “You know that’s just a bunch of Ilvermorny grads spewing rubbish because he went to Hogwarts!”

“Even so, it’ll be for the best if we use the opportunity.” Jack takes in all of their expressions and sighs. “ _I know_  you’re tired, but it’s just one month.”

Teddy looks around at his band members, trying to gauge their opinions. Flora gives him a shrug and then a nod; Finch, her twin brother, the only Muggle in the group, nods as well. “You can’t pass this one up, mate.”

Astrid looks quietly excited, and Varlan, still perched on the armrest beside him, just looks plain worried. “I just don’t want you to burn yourself out,” he says when he notices Teddy studying him. “You sound awful already.”

“Nothing a good potion and time away from a certain redhead won’t cure,” Jack puts in with a pointed look.

Varlan kicks Jack’s shoe with his foot. “I’m with you, whatever you decide,” he says.

Teddy looks to Jack. “When would we leave?”

“I can get everyone on a chartered flight tomorrow morning.”

Teddy thinks of Ron in his bed and how little time he’ll have with him. What their separation will do to this new, fragile thing they’ve just discovered.

He sighs. “Do it.” 


	4. PART IV: Ron

**Part IV**

**Ron**

 

 

Teddy’s pantry is bare, save for an almost empty box of cereal which Ron pours into a bowl and devours, sans milk, while standing around in his underwear. He leans against the counter, gazing at the breathtakingly-gorgeous view of the park below—the people roaming about, enjoying the gorgeous summer day, and the chrome-littered skyline of London beyond—and laughs softly, strangely amazed that he’s fucked a rockstar, and that he’s eating cereal in the vast expanse of said rockstar’s multi-million dollar house the morning—well, afternoon—after.

Then he remembers the rockstar is his best mate’s godson, that he’s probably going to fuck this one up beyond repair, and he returns to the sink and washes his bowl gloomily.

He’s contemplating taking a soak in the gorgeous clawfoot tub he spied in Teddy’s bath, but then his mobile rings from the counter where he’d set it to charge. When he glances at the screen, it’s Hermione’s face on his caller ID, and he seriously contemplates just letting it ring. Knowing Hermione, she’ll immediately call him back. It’s her favourite tactic.

He groans. If this is about work, and Hermione wants him to leave again…

“This is Ron?”

“Hi, you,” Hermione answers, sounding oddly subdued. “What are you doing?”

“Erm. I was eating. What are you doing?”

 She hesitates. “Going over the forecasts you sent me.”

“What do you think?”

“I think you’re right. The magic to non-magic birth rate is spiking the same way it did back in the ‘40’s, but I’m not sure it’s going to be enough to convince them to consider revising the Statute.”

“I know it won’t be enough for  _that_ big of a result,” Ron says, somewhat indignantly. “But you and Draco could at least convince them to give us more funding for research.”

“We’re already working on more funding. Funding isn’t the issue. Getting the word out is.”

“Hermione, the last couple I found had twins.” He begins to absently pace the room. “One is a witch. Not a drop of magic in their bloodline, and she’s performing levitation charms at  _two_. She sent a knife flying straight at her sister!”

“Ron, I read the report.”

“Merlin knows what would have happened if I wasn’t tracing that surge of magic in the area. Sooner or later, someone— _a child_ , Hermione—is going I get killed because Muggles don’t know what they’re dealing with. We have to at least be able to warn them.”

“Ron, I  _know_.” Hermione lets out an exasperated breath. “You’re preaching to the choir here. I—look—that’s not why I called. I have something important to tell you.”

Ron stops pacing and wandlessly Summons his clothes. “You okay? Should I come?”

“No! Yes. Yes, I’m fine it’s nothing like that.”

Ron’s entire outfit from last night smacks him in the face, and he lets it fall to the floor. “And Viktor?”

She takes an audible breath, pauses, then says, “Yes, he’s all right, too. That’s—he’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

Ron drops onto the sofa, nonplussed. “Um. Okay….?”

“Look. Some photographers took some picture of us. Of Viktor and me. We were out last night, in a restaurant. I wanted to be the one to tell you before you saw.”

“To tell me you’re going to be in the  _Prophet_  again? Hermione, we’re always in the  _Prophet.”_

“No, no. Well, you see, they took the pictures because Viktor was in the middle of proposing to me. In public, for some daft reason.”

Ron blinks. “What?”

“Viktor and I are engaged, Ron. I’ve said yes. We’re getting married.”

It takes almost a minute for Ron’s brain to catch up, but Hermione doesn’t urge him into speech, she only waits on the line until he speaks again. “Married?”

“Yes. I didn’t want you to read it in the papers, and I hate doing this on the phone, but I can’t get a bloody Portkey direct from Quebec until tomorrow. Then we can talk in person about this, all right?”

Ron stands on unsteady legs and slowly makes his to the large window again to contemplate the same breath-taking view, only now it seems strangely bleak. “You said you didn’t want to be married.”

“Yes, I know.”

“You told me ‘no.’”

“Ron, you know why I said that. What you wanted…I couldn’t—”

“Thanks for calling and telling me.” Even to his own ears, his voice sounds wooden, his sentences incomplete.

Hermione sighs. “Oh, Ron, please don’t.”

Ron forces a smile, hoping she’ll hear it through the line. “Hermione, it’s all right. I’m just glad I didn’t find out from the  _Prophet,_  is all.”

“ _Ron_ —”

“I’ve got to go.” He swipes his thumb across the screen to end the call, then for good measure, he switches the phone off. Of course she can marry whomever she wants.  _Of course._ They’ve been over for years. Everything about this is fine _._

It’s _fine._

Ron always thought they split because they hadn’t wanted the same things. To learn now that Hermione only hadn’t wanted those thing with  _him_ is… just a lot to contemplate. He looks around the unfamiliar room in a daze, slowly realising that he just doesn’t want to be here alone anymore. Ron walks to Teddy’s room, avoids looking at the rumpled sheets and locates his wand. He Summons all his things from around the flat, looks around one last time, and then Disapparates.

*

 

He’s always been grateful that the Leaky Cauldron is in London, that it’s dark and dank and has perfect corners for someone with his notoriety to slip into relatively unnoticed.

He’s also grateful that he hasn’t spotted anyone he knows, and that Tom’s successor, a young Squib named Julene, keeps supplying him with pint after pint.

A few hours into his self-imposed alcoholic imprisonment, someone pulls out the stool beside him and plops into it with a sigh.

“I thought I’d find you here,” Blaise says.

Ron blearily looks at him, and then does a double take, almost falling out of his seat. Instead of the usual dark-coloured robes, Blaise looks resplendent in a navy-blue jumper that hugs his broad chest that looks stunning against his dark skin—even the brown of his eyes look as though they’re glowing. Ron’s eyebrows raise of their own accord. “Blaise,” he slurs. “You’re bloody gorgeous!”

Blaise stares at him. “ _Now_  you notice. How much have you had, you idiot?”

“A fair bit.”

Blaise calls Julene over to them with a wave. “Firewhisky for me, please. I’m going to need it, and a water for this idiot.”

Ron scoffs. “I’d like another pint, Ju. No water.”

Julene looks to Blaise as if Ron hasn’t spoken, “Water and Firewhisky coming right up.”

“Thank you, darling.”

“Hey!” Ron protests as she walks away.

“Stop shouting, Ron, you’re making people concerned.”

Ron stares at Blaise again, still aghast and gently pokes his shoulder. “Where have  _you_  been, then?”

“On one of the best dates I’ve had in my life, cut short, thanks to you.”

Ron pouts, looks down at the bar, then smiles, happy to rediscover he hasn’t finished his last pint completely. “Good luck with that,” he says. “Hopefully it won’t blow up in your face.”

Blaise takes a deep breath and turns to face him. “So, I take it this…mood of yours is because of what I just saw in the papers?”

“Maybe.”

Julene delivers their drinks and disappears again. Blaise pointedly slides the glass of water in front of Ron, then knocks back his shot of Firewhisky like a pro.

“Ron, you two  have been over for years. You  _knew_  she was with Viktor. I’ve never seen you let it affect you this way.”

“I’m not affected by  _Viktor._  I’m just…” he stops himself, unable to explain. “I’m happy for her. Really. I am.”

“But…?”

“I guess I supposed I’d never have to go to her wedding. That’s all.”

Blaise reaches for Ron’s hand and Ron sighs, letting him hold it even though he knows he’s not really going to like the truth Blaise is about to drop on him.

“Can’t you just let me be miserable?”

Blaise smiles, linking their fingers together and propping his chin on them both. “Not a chance.”

“Fine,” Ron says with a sigh, “At least let me have another pint.”

“No.”

Ron picks up his water with his free hand and drinks it with a scowl.

“Here’s the thing. Relationships are complicated as fuck, and we don’t always get what we want.”

“I know that.”

“Do you? How long have we been fucking, Ron?”

Ron looks around the bar self-consciously, wondering if anyone else is as affected by the word ‘ _fucking’_ dropping so casually in Blaise’s posh-as-hell accent. “Erm. A long time?”

“Nine years, Ron. In that time, tell me: have you ever wondered what I want from you?”

Ron gently pulls his hand away, giving Blaise an incredulous look. “You always made it clear you wanted my dick, Blaise.”

Blaise opens his mouth, then looks to Julene again. “Two Firewhiskys this time, please.”

“Blaise, what are you trying to say?”

“I’m saying we’ve been sleeping together for almost decade, and you never once considered it a relationship.”

“Because we never…we just always… Are you saying you wanted more?”

“I’m saying relationships can be complicated, and it’s not always black and white. And sometimes we hurt each other without meaning to.”

Julene deposits two Firewhiskys in front of them with an expression that makes it clear she’s no longer reserving judgment. “This is your last, Weasley,” she says before returning to the opposite end of the bar.

They both hastily knock back their drinks, attempting—at least on Ron’s part—to avoid confronting the conversation further. “You’re saying that Hermione doesn’t mean to hurt me? You don’t think I know that?”

“The same way I know what you’ve never meant to hurt  _me_. That doesn’t mean that you never have.”

“How on earth have I—”

“Do I have to spell it out for you Ron…?” Blaise raises a brow at him, then looks over to Julene as if considering getting even more alcohol.

Ron’s ears burn as familiar sinking feeling settles at the base of his stomach. “ _This_  is why you were so strange that night at the show. You’re… you…”

“I have feelings for you that I’ve learned to ignore, yes.”

“Blaise…”

“Come, now. Let’s not get emotional about it. My point is, we’re not always going to get exactly what we want when it comes to people and relationships, are we?”

“No. I suppose we’re not, but Blaise… you never said—”

Blaise waves a hand, cutting him off. “Ron, we both know you’re not heartbroken over Hermione. And I’m  _not_  heartbroken over you.” He takes Ron’s half-empty glass of water and drains the rest, looking flustered. “You’re upset because of the way things turned out, you’ve already moved on. Don’t forget that now.”

“Blaise, I’m so sorry.”

Blaise shrugs, a patently nonchalant expression on his face. “Don’t be. Besides, I know for certain that there’s a certain twink rockstar out there who already has his name on your dick, if not your fickle little heart.”

“He’s not a twink.” Ron doesn’t try to deny the latter. “Besides, it’ll never work out. He and I won’t want the same things, either.”

“Ok, that’s it. You’ve always been maudlin when you’re drunk, Ron, and you’re not making sense. I’m taking you home.”

“I’d rather say here and drink some more.”

“Either you come with me now, or I’ll cast a sobering charm at your head.” Blaise raises an eyebrow. “We both know how shitty those feel.”

With a deep sigh, Ron capitulates and lets Blaise help him out of his chair. The room spins dangerously for a minute, and he takes hold of Blaise tapered waist, then rests his head on Blaise’s shoulder. Blaise holds him up without comment, and Ron rests his chin on his shoulder with a sigh. “I’m sorry you left your amazing date. You were worried?”

Blaise shrugs. “Granger’s picture is in almost every paper. Everyone’s worried about you.”

“They all think I’m in love with her.”

“Because you are, and that’s fine. It’s perfectly easy to love two people at once.” Ron straightens up, and Blaise takes him by the elbow, managing to get them past the array of stools at the bar. “Besides, we’re wizards. There’s barely enough of us to begin with.”

Ron frowns and looks at him contemplatively. “Why on earth are you in love with  _me_ ,” he says, incredulously. “Blaise, you can have _anyone_.”

 “Let’s not speak of that again, shall we?” Blaise mutters, thought he looks secretly pleased. “Come. I’m walking you to the Floo.”

They make an unsteady trek to the Floo. Blaise calls out for Hillview cottage, and then they disappear into the flames. After what feels like a millennium of spinning, they land precariously in Ron’s Floo, and Blaise has to hold Ron firmly at the waist to prevent him falling over. They stumble around the living room until Ron disengages and walks away, heading for the couch so he can use it to hold himself up.

“You can go back to your date,” he says, even as he takes very shallow breaths. “I’m perfectly fine.” He sits carefully on the armrest of Hermione’s sofa, wincing as another wave of dizziness hits.

“Uh huh.” Blaise walks over to him, lifts his hair from his forehead and places a gentle palm on his skin. “You’re clammy. That’d be the Floo and ten pints of beer. How on earth you maintain a six pack is beyond me.”

Ron smiles. “Keep complimenting my body. I like that.”

“I bet you do.” They share a heated look, and Blaise laughs. “Do you have a potion you can take? I’ll bring you one if you promise—”

Blaise’s gentle voice is cut off by the sound of footsteps, and he drops his hands to his sides as they both turn to find Teddy rounding the corner from the kitchen. He’s all Edward Lycan, light blond hair framing his face and unfamiliar, broad shoulders making him seem taller than he is. Ron achingly longs for Teddy’s dark locks and lean frame instead.

Teddy looks between them for a moment, and when his gaze fixes on Ron’s, his expression is painfully shuttered. “You’re drunk.”

“Well-spotted,” Blaise says, although he mercifully steps away from Ron, creating space between them

“Shut up, Blaise,” Ron grumbles. Blaise’s gaze flicks back to Ron’s, and Ron gives him a look that says  _don’t be a dick_ , and Blaise rolls his eyes— _fine._

“Floo me in the morning.” Blaise gives Ron’s shoulder a squeeze, walks to the Floo and takes a pinch of powder. “Take care of him, Lupin,” he calls, throwing Teddy a challenging look. Teddy stares back at him hard enough to bore holes into his forehead.

With a soft laugh, Blaise steps into the flames, and as soon as he disappears, Teddy crosses the room. He stops when he’s close enough for Ron to touch, his expression torn by pain and concern. Ron closes his eyes, but that only succeeds in making the room spin. He hastily opens them again and tries to recall if he’s ever actually been this drunk before.

“You weren’t home when I got back,” Teddy says, folding his arms across his chest.

Ron rubs his face. “Sorry about that”

“You went out with Zabini.”

“No.”

“He was just here, in case you’ve already forgotten.” Teddy frowns at him. “Ron, you’re a mess.”

Ron sighs and tries to pull himself together. “I know.”

“I saw the photos in the  _Prophet._  Is that why you’re like this?” Teddy gestures vaguely to Ron’s mess of a form. “Because of her?”

Ron glares at him, not at all liking Teddy’s tone at the word ‘ _her_ ’. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

Teddy’s expression goes very blank, then he laughs. It’s a short, hollow sound that Ron never wants to hear from him again.  “You’re right,” he says. “Why would I? I’m just…what…a kid, right? What would I know about it?”

“You know I’ve never called you that, Ted,” Ron answers wearily. “But yeah. You’re young. Very. Young. And I can’t pretend that doesn’t mean something.” Even as he says it, Ron  _knows_ that Teddy’s age has nothing to do with the way he’s feeling right now, and he knows he shouldn’t try to explain what he’s going through when he’s drunk, but Teddy’s handed him a loaded gun, and Ron’s always been the one to pull the trigger. “You’re young and you’re beautiful, and you’re going to be with so many people. I’m just…one of them.”

Teddy hesitates, then reaches for Ron and tucks a stray strand of his damp hair behind his ear. “What are you talking about?” He caresses Ron’s stubbled jaw, and Ron leans into his touch without thinking. “I’m not interested in anyone else.”

Ron gently takes Teddy’s hand and removes it from his face. “That’s what you think now, Ted, but that’s going to change.”

Teddy snatches his hand away and backs up, his grey eyes glinting with amber. “Where is this condescending bullshit coming from?” he asks, his tone incredulous. “If you really want to know, Ron, I’ve fucked a dozen other people. More than that. But, I’ve only ever loved  _you_.” He throws his hands up, as if annoyed at himself for his admission. “I’ve been in love with you since I was sixteen!”

Ron stills, and the words hang between them like a thousand buried land mines. He’d known, of course. No one writes a song like  _Red_  unless they feel that way, but to hear it said out loud…

“Teddy. You can’t—”

“If you’re going to make me feel like shit for the way I feel about you, just stop. I don’t want to hear you say it.”

When Teddy clenches his fists as if he’s just barely stopping himself from punching Ron in the face, every part of Edward Lycan falls away. It’s just Teddy across the room, looking at Ron with heartbroken, luminescent eyes, and Ron wants to punch himself instead.

Teddy takes a deep breath. “I’m leaving. Tomorrow. Jack’s extended the tour. I’m flying out to California for a month, and I was going to ask you to come.”

Ron covers his face with his palms, shaking his head. “Ted, that’s crazy. I can’t go to California.”

“Right, well. There we are. Thanks for the fuck, Ron. It was great. I love you. Goodbye.”

Ron drops his palms. “Ted. Just wait a—”

But Teddy’s already gone, ripping through Ron’s wards with his Apparition and leaving them blaring a shrill alarm in his wake.

 

 *

 

In the morning, Ron rolls over in bed and groans plaintively, certain he’s dying. His head is a live, pulsing thing that feels separate from his body, only there to bring him anguish and pain.

He clutches his head and moans again, making a noise similar to a birthing whale, and then he jumps half out of his wits when he spots his nephew sitting on the creepy-looking antique bedroom bench at Ron’s feet, eyes wide.

“Fucking hell, James!” Ron says, clutching his head as his hammering heart causes his headache to increase tenfold. He sits up, thankful he’s not naked or anything and pushes his hair out of his face. “ _Don’t_  tell your Dad I said ‘fucking’.” Ron tries to focus his gaze, but James’ scare is giving him double vision. “Why are you sitting there? How did you get in?”

“Dad spelled your wards, remember?” James gives him an anxious look, resembling a young Ginny so much it’s almost eerie, but with that trademark Potter frown and obnoxious hair making it known whose bloody kid he is. “Dad’s here, Uncle Ron. He’s pretty narked. Teddy came to say goodbye this morning, and he was a mess. I came so he wouldn’t kill you.”

Ron leans against the wooden headboard. “At this rate, I’m going to have to kill myself, but thanks.”

“I convinced him to wait for you in the living room,” James says, standing up anxiously as Ron swings his legs over bed, Summoning a t-shirt, lamenting the fact that he had fallen asleep in his jeans and that his balls ache.

James follows him to his dresser like a very lost, very hyper dog. “But you know Dad. Any minute now he’s going to—” The door flies open and Harry barges in, looking livid “—storm in and murder you,” James finishes weakly.

Before Harry can get a word in, Ron steps around him and narrowly escapes into the bath across the hall. He peers at himself in the mirror and pokes at the dark smudges beneath his eyes; he’s never looked this awful before, not even after he and Hermione broke up the first time. Even his lips are chapped.

He splashes his face with water and proceeds to brush his teeth, listening to Harry sending James off to the kitchen to wait. When Harry appears in the doorway behind him, the expression on his face tells Ron everything he needs to know. He’s really fucked it all up.

“He was devastated!” Harry says. His expression is torn between confusion and annoyance. “And you look terrible! What happened, Ron?”

Ron spits into the sink and rinses off his toothbrush. “A lot of things.”

“One day, he’s begging me for your bloody phone number, the next he’s gutted and talking to me about living in California for a few months?”

Ron ducks his head under the faucet and closes his eyes, letting the cool water soothe his head. Harry kicks his foot with his boot and he lifts his head, smoothing his hair back with his palms and whipping the excess water from his face. “ _I_  happened, ok? You were right about us being a terrible idea.”

“Ron, god. Look,” Harry stuffs his hands into his pockets, looking guilty, and Ron wants to tell him this whole mess has nothing to do with him just to wipe the sad look on his face. “I never said you were a terrible idea. I only asked you not to hurt him.”

“Well, I did,” Ron reaches into his cabinet for a hand towel and wipes his face and hands. “I’m a horrible cad, and I fucked it all up. Is that what you want to hear?”

“I want you to stop being an arsehole and tell me what happened. Is this about what we all saw in the  _Prophet_  yesterday?”

For a moment, all Ron wants to do is scream. “God. Would everyone  _please_ stop acting as if my life revolves around Hermione Granger!”

“I would certainly appreciate that myself.” Ron’s heart swells with both relief and pain at the sight of Hermione in the hallway, her frizzy hair as wild as ever, dressed in an oversized jumper and a long skirt that makes her look even more hippyish than usual, a large cloth bag at her feet. Her expression is harassed, but then becomes full of concern when she takes in Ron’s condition. “Harry, would you give us a moment?” 

Harry looks between them and sighs, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Look Ron, I’m just worried about Ted, okay? He’s gone away for a month without even telling me where he’ll be staying. He’s never done that before.”

Ron’s shoulders slump. “Yeah, I’ll explain. Just give Hermione and me a mo’, will you?”

Harry bites his lip. “Yeah, all right.” He turns and disappears down the hallway.

Wordlessly, he and Hermione walk into what used to be their bedroom, and when they’re inside, she rounds on him. “What happened?”

“I got drunk after you called. Told Teddy…stupid things.”

“Oh, Ron, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have called.  I just knew that if you’d seen in in the paper without hearing from me…”

He crosses the room and pulls her into a hug, the anxiety in his heart and hands melting just a little at her all-too-familiar, comforting scent. “It’s not your fault. I’m… stupid. I know. I wasn’t even upset about you.” He pulls away, looking down at her. “Okay, I was, but not the way everyone thinks. You know I’m happy for you, don’t you?”

She beams at him and squeezes his forearms. “Thank you.”

Ron lets her go and steps away. “I just... I just thought that you didn’t want that.”

“Ron. It’s not that I didn’t want it. And it’s  _not_  that I didn’t want it with you. It’s that we didn’t—we still don’t—have the same ideas about what marriage is.”

Ron studies her expression carefully. “And that hasn’t changed? You have the same ideas?”

“It hasn’t changed. Viktor and I are still the same. I’ve just chosen to share a life and a home with him. That’s all.”

“Do you...” Ron hesitates, feeling his throat close up, not from regret, but from the thought of things lost, a future he could never fulfil. “Do you think—couldn’t we have tried something like that?”

“Could we have, Ron? Would you have been happy?”

Ron thinks about it—about the way all the things Hermione had needed always ended up with Ron feeling hurt and confused. “No.”

“Neither would I.”

He kisses her forehead and leads her to sit on the bed, taking her hand.

After a few moments of sitting in silence, she nudges his shoulder. “Tell me about Teddy, then.”

Ron smiles. “He’s… he’s—” but then he trails off, not even sure where to begin.

“You’re lovestruck,” she says with a laugh. “I’m happy for you, too, Ron.”

“He says he’s in love with me, and I know he believes it. I know he thinks he is.”

“God, don’t you sound patronising.”

She says it lightly, but her eyes level his and he shakes his head. “Just hear me out please. You’re the only one who’ll understand this.” At her nod, he continues. “When we were his age, didn’t we love each other? Weren’t we absolutely sure that we wanted to be together forever? Look at us now. You’re marrying someone else, and I’m trying to be okay with it.”

Hermione turns to face him and puts her free hand on his face, scratching his stubble gently with her nails. “Oh, Ron. Don’t you see? It’s not that we didn’t work out because we didn’t love each other. I love you. I’ll always love you. But we can’t give each other what we need. And that’s no one’s fault.” He’s embarrassed to find that his eyes are filling up, and he huffs out a half-laugh when Hermione drapes an arm across his shoulders and wipes his eyes. “If you and Teddy want the same thing, shouldn’t you at least give it a chance? Don’t give up on him because of what happened with us; that would break my heart.”

 “He’s across the world now,” Ron says thickly. “And he probably hates me.”

She kisses his cheek, and when he looks up, Harry is there, leaning against the door frame, looking at Ron with a serious expression. “Then you’d better go fucking find him and apologise, you terrible cad.”

Ron chokes out a husky laugh, and Hermione pats his thigh. “Let’s see about getting you a Portkey.”

  
                                                                                                                *   
  
The queue outside  _The Mages_ —the wizarding nightclub where Teddy’s performing—is so long that it disappears around the corner even though it’s almost three in the morning and Ron’s certain Teddy’s set is over. He takes a deep breath and walks past all the concert goers, ignoring the dirty looks as he skips them all and heads straight to the front.

As he meets up with the stern looking truck of bouncer, he secretly wishes for just an ounce of Blaise’s charm especially when he doesn’t even deign to look Ron. in the eye.

Ron blunders on anyway. “Hi! I just—”

“Back of the line, dude.” The bouncers voice is gruff and—for lack of a better word—very  _American._

“Hang on! I just need to talk to Jack, he’s—”

“Didn’t you hear me, asshole?” The bouncer not-so-subtly gestures for his wand. “Get to the back of the line before I hex you.”

Ron steps back a little, considering simply hexing the idiot himself, almost certain he could best the rude bastard in a wand fight, and then he spots Jack’s tall figure at the entrance of the club, ash brown hair falling to his shoulders and looking absolutely knackered even from the side.

“Jack!” he yells, ignoring when the bouncer puts a hand on his shoulder and tries to shove him backwards. “Jack! Kerouac!”

Jack spins around at the last, and when he spots Ron, his expression turns into such a deep scowl that Ron flinches. Jack stalks down the steps towards the queue and pulls him out of the way of all the patrons, away from the crowd. “You absolute shite.” Jack's accent is sharp enough to cut glass, and he breathes into Ron’s face, his brown eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. “Are you here to fuck him a little more? Do you know how off he’s been because of whatever the hell you pulled?”

Ron pushes Jack off him and straightens his shirt, pushing his sleeves up to his elbows. “I know made a mess of it, okay? Could you just let me in to see him please? I only just got a Portkey. I would have come sooner, I didn’t know exactly where he was.”

“I didn’t want you to.” Jack says, his expression pinched. “We’ve been here a week, and he’s been a mess the whole time. The only time I’ve seen him look halfway normal is when he’s on stage—not thinking about  _you._ ”

“Can you stop telling me how fucked up he is and let me go see him?”

Jack studies him for a moment. “Do you have your shit together? Because if you don’t, I’m not letting you in there.”

Ron takes a deep breath and clenches his fist, managing to grab a hold on to his temper by just a thread. “Yes, I do. I just need to see him, and we’ll work it out. He’ll be fine. I promise.”

Jack lets him sweat for a moment, and then he nods. “Good. Maybe you can talk some sense into him and he’ll stop being such a dramatic shit. He’s making everyone’s lives a fucking nightmare.” He stalks away so fast that Ron has to jump into action to follow him, ignoring the bouncer’s glare as Jack leads him past the line inside the dark nightclub.

Jack pushes through the clusters of witches and wizards sipping on drinks and grinding on each other while drinks whiz over their heads. They walk past the bar and stage into a backstage area that leads right to a brick wall which shimmers and disappears around them when Jack leads them through. Behind the glamour is a gated lift guarded by two secruiwizards who look Ron up and down, even as Jack tells them it’s okay.

“His room is up two floors up, down the hallway, first door on the right.” Jack pulls open the gate, and Ron steps in. “If you see Varlan, you should hide. He’s sworn to punch you in the face the next time he sees you.”

Ron sighs, accepting this comment with a sinking feeling in his chest and follows the directions, fervently wishing he doesn’t run in to any of Teddy’s bandmates at all. They probably all think he’s an arsehole, and he’s not sure he can defend himself against that.

In a few strides, he comes upon the door marked “Edward Lycan” in floating rainbow colours that pulse in time with the echoes of the bass that’s vibrating every walls. He takes a deep breath and knocks, but no one answers. After a few tries, Ron turns the antique knob, his heart lifting when it makes a satisfying click.

It opens, swinging into a small, cushy-looking suite, with ornate furnishings and antique-looking furniture that doesn’t at all match the atmosphere of the club below. A large gold-trimmed French sofa that’s big enough to double as a bed is the focus of the room, surrounded by ornate French chairs and chaise lounges, draped with blankets and throws. The rest of the living area looks as though Teddy and the others had been using it for practice—four plush chairs are clustered around a medium-sized piano, and Teddy's guitar is tossed on the sofa next to a few empty beer bottles. Ron makes a soft sound, closing the door behind him and Banishing the bottles before the dregs inside can spill and ruin the guitar, knowing it’s Teddy’s favourite.

The living room leads to a small balcony with a sliding door, and through the billowing white curtains, he can see Teddy’s graceful silhouette, spotlighted by the lamp hung on the inside wall. Teddy leans over the balcony, a large blunt in his hands and Ron observes him silently, heart aching as Teddy takes a drag and exhales. The wind takes smoke with it almost instantly, and then, as if his name is called, Teddy turns around, and then the curtain blows, revealing his face. 

Teddy’s eyes grow wide as he spots Ron, and the blunt hangs loosely from his fingertips. His inky black hair lifts from the breeze, and his eyes are bloodshot and smudged with dark eyeliner. His t-shirt is frayed, his joggers are slung low on his hips, and he looks tired and fed up and sad and Ron aches for him.

Ron steps forward, holding his hands up, like a man revealing to an enemy that he’s unarmed.

Teddy’s blunt falls to the floor. “Ron..”

“Just let me say why I’m here, and then you can tell me off, all right?”

“I don’t care why you’re here.” Teddy flings the billowing curtain aside, and steps inside, crossing the room in two short strides then launches himself into Ron’s arms. “You came.”

Ron releases a tight breath and digs his fingers into Teddy’s hips. It feels as though he can’t hold him tight enough, and he buries his face into Teddy’s hair, breathing in the familiar scent of Mallowsweet and tobacco and energy and life and all the wonderful things that Teddy just is. “I came.”

Teddy leans back and looks up into his eyes, and Ron’s heart hurts for the pain that he put there. “You were an absolute shit to me,” Teddy says. “I should hate you.”

“But you don’t?”

“I don’t.” Teddy sighs and rests his head on Ron’s shoulder. When he speaks, his words are muffle, and his lips brush the side of Ron’s neck. “But fuck you for saying all that.”

Ron holds him tighter. “I’m so sorry.”

Teddy sags into Ron’s arms a little. “I’m knackered. I’ve been waiting for you for days. Take me bed, arsehole.”

Ron lifts him up bodily, and Teddy huffs a disbelieving laugh, though he wraps his legs around Ron’s waist. “I didn’t mean  _literally_.”

“Shush.” Ron carries him to the large sofa and pushes Teddy’s guitar aside before laying him down gently. Teddy lays on his side, watching him as Ron picks up the guitar and sits with it on his lap, plucking on it cautiously.

“Not many people know this,” he says, his heart lifting when Teddy looks up at him with a helpless half-smile. “I’m actually pretty good with a guitar.”

“Hermione and Harry used to tell me that all the time. They used to think you and I could bond over it.” Teddy laughs and pushes a lock of his hair behind his ear. “I didn’t have the heart to tell them I’d only wanted to bond with your dick.”

Ron chokes “You’re insane.” His cheeks are flaming, and he knows his ears are bright red.

Teddy smiles and pushes himself up on his elbow. “When did you learn?

“Dad always had Muggle instruments around trying to figure them out. I used to tinker with a few old ones I had but I had no clue about what I was doing. Didn’t properly learn till a bloke I was—” He looks up at Teddy and chews on his lower lip. “Till a bloke me and Hermione were seeing taught me the basics, and I went along from there.”

Ron traces the curve of the guitar, stopping on the carving he finds there with his fingertips. He lifts it up to peer at it, but Teddy hastily grabs the guitar from his hands places it carefully on the floor.

Then he turns back to Ron. “You’ve started,” he says. “You might as well finish.” 

“You want to hear about Blaise, or Hermione?”

“Hermione,” Teddy says. “I understand about Blaise. I mean. I have eyes. He’s gorgeous and you were fuck buddies. I can handle that. You weren’t getting drunk over Blaise. You were getting drunk over her.”

“I know you think you understand about me and her—”

“I know you’re still in love with her.”

“Not the way you think. I don’t want to be with Hermione. Not anymore.” At Teddy’s sceptical look, Ron looks down at his palm, willing himself to find the words to explain. “Me and Hermione…we tried for a long time to make things work between us. But monogamy. It’s not… in her nature. As we got older, she realised she prefers multiple partners.”

He looks up, and Teddy nods, encouraging him to go on. “Nothing’s wrong with that. I know that now, and I tried it, for her, but it wasn’t for me. It drove me crazy thinking of her loving someone else. Being with someone else the same ways she was with me.” Ron picks at the edge of the sofa with a fingernail, finding it difficult to look Teddy in the eye. “It’s the same way it drives me crazy thinking of you with someone else.” He looks up, and then smiles when Teddy’s cheeks go red. “I reckon that’s the way I’m built. I only need one person to give everything to. And I want that person to feel the same way.”

Teddy reaches across the bed and takes Ron’s hands. “I  _do_  feel that way, Ron. I don’t want to be with anyone else. I’m in love with you.”

“I know.”

“And it’s not because I’m young and I don’t know better. You’re kind and patient, and so fucking smart. I don’t know why you don’t give yourself enough credit, but you’re incredible.” He sits up and closes the space between them, resting his forehead against Ron’s.

Ron sighs deeply, loving the feel of his skin. His lifts his palm and cups Teddy’s cheek, threading his fingers into the thick hairs at Teddy’s nape.

Teddy groans softly and continues. “I also know that you’re impatient and stubborn, and you can be insensitive sometimes, and you don’t always say the right things. It’s not news to me, Ron. I’ve known you all my life.” He leans back and meets Ron’s gaze, his grey eyes mesmerising and so bright. “If you think I’m going to fall out of love with you because you have a temper, or you’re full of shit sometimes, then you’re wrong.” He mirrors Ron’s earlier movement, his palm gently scratching the stubble on Ron’s cheek. “I need you to trust me. Trust me when I say I love you.”

Ron pulls away and kisses Teddy’s softly, toying idly with the silky stands of his hair. When he pulls away, Teddy keeps his eyes closed for a moment, and Ron’s wants to kiss him again. “I’m sorry I made you believe I didn’t think you knew your own feelings. That’s on me. That’s my own… baggage.”

“Just…give me a chance, Ron,” Teddy murmurs. “That’s all I want.”

Ron leans in and kisses Teddy deeply, sighing when Teddy opens up to him so easily and completely. He pushes Teddy backwards and leans over him, losing himself in the swipe of Teddy's soft tongue across his. He drapes himself entirely over Teddy’s body, growing hard when the swell of Teddy’s erection brushes his thigh. He groans as Teddy spreads his thighs, allowing Ron to slip neatly between, feeling a surge of almost primal need to possess everything about Teddy’s body for the rest of the night. He licks the skin beneath Teddy's neck and sucks on his pulse point for a moment before he pulls away and ghosts a kiss on Teddy's earlobe. “One condition.”

Teddy doesn’t even hesitate. “Name it.”

“After this month, you take a vacation with me.”

Teddy grows very still, all his muscle suddenly tense beneath Ron’s touch. “I can’t,” he says quietly. “I’ll probably have to go back into studio after this. Jack says—"

“ _Fuck Jack_. You’re exhausted, Ted, I can see it. At least a month.”

Teddy’s breath hitches when Ron pushes his palm past the waist of his loose joggers and slips his fingers between Teddy’s arsecheeks. “Where will we go?” Teddy releases a low moan as Ron’s fingers find his hole and presses against the skin there lightly, with promise.

“Wherever you want, T. Anywhere.”

Ron nips Teddy’s lower lip and Teddy cries out, his breathless voice echoing in the silence. “Oh god. Yes. Okay.  _Ron..._ ”   
  
                                                                                 


	5. Epilogue

**Epilogue**  
  
**Three years later**

  
  
  
Down the hallway and just past the wings; beyond the curtain and the stage, his audience beckons.

They call his name, and scream and cheer and sing. They wave signs with his name, and print posters of his face in stark, bold colours. They post pictures of him on the internet and write opinion pieces about his songs. The create memes about the things he does and write stories about him he could never dream of.

They watch his interviews and dissect every single word he says, they argue about him with each other on Tumblr, they heart every Tweet he writes, and line up for hours to have him sign a napkin. But all of this, all the energy of his fans, all of this _rockstar_ life—the late nights, the endless tours, the rehearsals, the wizarding pubs, the Muggle concerts in stadiums, the awards shows and the magazine covers—all of this is nothing without _him_. The man in the front row, the one with the flaming hair and the bright blue eyes, a smile on his bearded face and his friends never too far away. The one who looks at Teddy like he’s hung the moon and says his name in the dead of night just to make sure he’s there.

It’s all nothing without him.

And so, Edward Lycan walks onto the stage, rests his palm a upon his mic, adjusts his guitar strap, smiles at his fans and says, “This one’s for Red.”

  


_fin_

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [Tumblr](http://kedavranox.tumblr.com)! ❤


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